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Instead of The Thorn 


BY 


GEORGETTE HEYER 


n 

Author of “The Great Roxhythe,” etc. 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 



TZ* 

.H-S 74 

1 ~ 


COPYEIGHT, 1924 


By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 


(INCORPORATED) 


Printed in the United States of America 

Printed by Geo. H. Ellis Co. (Inc.), Boston, Massachusetts, U. S.A. 
Bound by The Boston Bookbinding Company 
Cambridge, Massachusetts, U.S. A. 


APR-9’24 < 

©Cl h'il't 858 


TO JOANNA CANNAN. 


My dear Joanna, 

There was once a Sealyham whom you named 
Elizabeth. The rest you know, and why I dedi¬ 
cate this book to you who so strangely inspired 
it. 

But there are other reasons for my dedication 
which I think your humility will not let you 
see. You and 1 have discussed the fortunes of 
Elizabeth Arden not once but many times, and 
good counsel have you given me, and sympathy 
in moments of depression. Step by step you 
have followed the book’s growth until at last I 
put it into your hands, all in cold type, and you 
read it, and gave me a criticism that was careful, 
and shrewd, and very kind. 

So because of these things, and because of 
the pleasant hours I have spent in your garden, 
and the delight 1 have felt in reading your work, 
1 send you my book, such as it is, in admiration 
of your pen-craft, and with my love. 

GEORGETTE HEYER 



INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir-tree. . . 

Isaiah; 55, 13 





INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


CHAPTER ONE 

When she was seven Elizabeth asked Mr. Hengist to 
come and play with her in her bath, and Miss Arden, who 
was Elizabeth’s aunt, said, 

“That’ll do, Elizabeth.” 

Elizabeth knew by the way Miss Arden kept her eyes on 
her crochet that she ought not to have asked Mr. Hen- 
gist to come and see her in her bath, and quite suddenly, 
and for no tangible reason she felt that she had been 
naughty, and was ashamed. Only Mr. Hengist, who was 
Father’s friend, did not seem to think that she ought not 
to have said it. He smiled in a friendly, comfortable 
way, and said that he was much honoured. Only he did 
not come to the bathroom after all. Elizabeth thought 
that he would have come if Aunt Anne had not looked so 
forbidding. 

Later on, when she was older, Elizabeth discovered 
that a great many of the things one did, like cutting one’s 
toe-nails and wearing a thicker vest in winter, must never 
be mentioned, except to Aunt Anne. Elizabeth could not 
understand this, and it seemed that Aunt Anne was unable 
to explain. She only said that you must not ask questions, 
and that nice little girls did not want to talk about under¬ 
clothes and things like that. Elizabeth tried to tell her 
that she didn’t exactly want to talk about them, they 
were not interesting, but they were so ordinary and they 
formed such a large part of your life that it seemed 

l 


2 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


strange not to be able to speak of them if the conversa¬ 
tion turned that way. Aunt Anne just said that she hoped 
the conversation never would turn that way, and that 
Elizabeth had better run along and play with her doll. 

Elizabeth was tired of her doll, but she did not tell 
Aunt Anne that. She still loved the doll—in a way—but 
she was growing too old for it. She would rather have a 
puppy, only Aunt Anne was not fond of dogs. Then, 
too, Aunt Anne was never pleased when you grew out of 
your toys and thought them babyish. It was just as if she 
expected you always to be the same age and to like the 
same things. She wanted you to enjoy all the things she 
had enjoyed when she was little, and when you rebelled, 
as you had done at Cromer when you said you thought 
digging sand-castles was dull, she did not see that it was 
because you were growing up, or because you were “ dif¬ 
ferent/ ’ but said either that you were showing-off, or 
that she did not know what present-day children were 
coming to. It was useless to explain to her that in¬ 
stead of playing with a doll or digging sand-castles, you 
would prefer to read a book. She seemed to think that 
you ought not to feel like that; it worried her, and she dis¬ 
approved. 

She was never unkind; she loved Elizabeth more than 
anyone else in all the world, because Elizabeth was the 
only thing in the world that was really her own. Her 
brother was Elizabeth’s father, but Elizabeth did not be¬ 
long to him. He kissed her before he went to business 
each morning, and when he came home he kissed her again 
and asked her what she had been doing with herself all 
day. That was all: he was not interested in Elizabeth, 
she was not interested in him. Miss Arden was glad that 
this was so, very secretly, but she would have been 
shocked if Elizabeth had told her that she did not love 
her father. She did not even realise that she did not 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


3 


want Elizabeth to care for Lawrence; it would not have 
been nice to face this fact, so she put it behind her and 
pretended that Elizabeth was just as fond of Lawrence as 
she should be. On the only occasion when Elizabeth had 
ventured to criticise her father, Miss Arden had told her 
that it was wrong, and that she was a silly little girl. 
Elizabeth never tried to discuss her father again; she had 
discovered that whatever you thought must be kept secret, 
because most of your really interesting thoughts were 
shocking and precocious. Only it didn’t make matters 
better between her and Lawrence. 

Too many things hurt Elizabeth: Aunt Anne’s disap¬ 
proval, consciousness of wrong-doing, and the cat’s kit¬ 
tens being drowned. If you fell short of Aunt Anne’s 
ideal of you, she was grieved and worried, and her an¬ 
noyance made you feel worm-like and unhappy. It was 
better to pretend always, even to yourself, that you liked 
the things Aunt Anne wanted you to like. She was con¬ 
vinced that skipping was a pastime that should appeal 
to you. If you thought it dull, then you were extraordi¬ 
nary, and unchildlike, and you had to bring your brain 
down from the heights to which it had climbed, and force 
it to enjoy an amusement it had outgrown three years 
ago. 

So to please Aunt Anne Elizabeth did this, and all 
the other things that were expected of her, and she did 
not allow herself to think that they were silly, or that 
she disliked them, because it was evident that she ought 
not to think that. 

She did not go to school; she had a governess who 
taught her that Alfred burned the cakes, and that if one 
straight line stands on another straight line so that the 
adjacent angles are equal, they are both right angles. 
Her knowledge of literature was always defective, because 
there were so many writers of whom Aunt Anne disap- 


4 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


proved. Shelley was banned because his private life 
did not bear inspection; Swinburne was a modern, and 
therefore unreadable; Byron had written a very disgust¬ 
ing poem called Don Juan (Miss Arden had not read 
any of Byron’s poems, but she had heard that this was 
so) and therefore Elizabeth was forbidden to read his 
works. Wordsworth and Tennyson were given to Eliza¬ 
beth, and the copy of Tennyson was well-worn and had 
the more trite passages underlined in pencil. 

When Miss Arden was a girl everyone was rapturous 
in praise of Dickens, though of course it was a pity he 
had written such a horrid book as “Pickwick Papers.” 
Elizabeth was given the “Old Curiosity Shop” to read, with 
assurances that it was a sweet tale and one that would 
make her cry. Elizabeth did not cry, because she did 
not think that little Nell was at all pathetic. She pre¬ 
ferred Dick Swiveller, but as Miss Arden evidently 
expected her to rave over the tragedy and the general 
sugariness of little Nell, she said that she thought it was 
lovely. Gradually she cheated herself into believing this, 
so that when she read “Dombey and Son” she managed 
to feel quite a lump at the back of her throat at the 
death of Paul. If she had not felt this lump Miss Arden 
would have said that she didn’t know how Elizabeth 
could read those passages without a tear, and further, 
that she shuddered to think what the younger generation 
was coming to. 

Thackeray was no more than a name to Elizabeth; he 
had written a book called “Vanity Fair,” which was not at 
all a nice book, but Scott rivalled Dickens in desirableness. 
Then there was Louisa Alcott and Charlotte Yonge, and 
L. T. Meade, and a host of well-meaning women who wrote 
books for girls especially designed, it seemed, to induce a 
morbidly sentimental frame of mind. Miss Arden labelled 
them all “pretty tales.” 


V 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


5 


Mr. Hengist gave Elizabeth the 4 ‘History of Henry Es¬ 
mond” on her fourteenth birthday, but Miss Arden in¬ 
tercepted it and said gently: 

“I think there’s plenty of time yet for that, Mr. 
Hengist. ’’ 

Mr. Hengist said, Stuff and nonsense! very gruffly, but 
Elizabeth was not allowed to read “Esmond.” 

She had friends, not many because most other girls were 
at school and had other interests, but a few, of whom Miss 
Arden approved, and Mr. Hengist. 

She thought how she had loved Mr. Hengist when she 
was seven years old. She only liked him now, and she 
thought him queer sometimes and brusque. Aunt Anne 
was not fond of Mr. Hengist; she was polite to him be¬ 
cause he was Father’s friend, but she remarked occasion¬ 
ally to Elizabeth that he was a very strange man. He 
called Elizabeth Prunes and Prisms, which hurt her dig¬ 
nity, and he advised her not to be a little humbug when 
she told him how miserable the death of Paul had made 
her feel. 

“My dear good child,” he said, polishing his eyeglasses 
on a large silk handkerchief, “for heaven’s sake cultivate 
some independence of thought! Don’t repeat your aunt’s 
views; let’s hear your own. They’re the only ones that 
are worth having from you.” 

Elizabeth thought he could not have heard Aunt Anne 
say that it was unbecoming for a child of her age to air her 
opinions. Either you were silent, or you agreed with what 
your elders said. She looked at Mr. Hengist and wondered 
why he said such funny things. 

‘ ‘ Tell me what you really think, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ What about 
Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness?” 

“Oh, they’re very clever, aren’t they?” she answered at 
once. “Of course they’re not sad, like Nell and her grand¬ 
father. ’ ’ 


6 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Why should they be?” he retorted, which was quite in¬ 
comprehensible. 

To Lawrence he said more, forcibly and often, but Law¬ 
rence wore a superior smile and replied that it was 
very easy for a bachelor to propound theories on a girl’s 
education. 

“And it’s easy for a married man to shelve his respon¬ 
sibilities on to a spinster’s shoulders”: Mr. Hengist said 
quickly. 

Nothing disturbed Lawrence. He raised his eyebrows 
and still smiled. 

“My dear Hengist, are you insinuating that Anne is in¬ 
capable of bringing up Elizabeth?” he asked banteringly. 

“Yes—no, I’m not insinuating, I’m saying it point- 
blank. Good God, Lawrence, don’t you know that Eliza¬ 
beth is being hopelessly mismanaged?” 

“No, I can’t say that I do.” Lawrence was madden¬ 
ingly amused. “Anne is a woman; she ought to know.” 

“She may be a woman, but she didn’t bear Elizabeth,” 
Mr. Hengist snapped. “Only an exceptional spinster 
ought to have sole charge of a child. I don’t want to be 
rude about your sister, but she’s not at all exceptional.” 

“I hope not,” Lawrence said, more gravely. “I detest 
your exceptional woman. Anne is a good woman. I have 
no qualms.” 

“Evidently not. You don’t realise that there’s nothing 
more 'dangerous on this earth than your really good old 
maid.” 

Lawrence looked at him very much as Elizabeth had 
looked, and thought what a queer chap he was. 

“What an extraordinary thing to say!” he remarked. 
“No one could call Anne dangerous, poor old thing!” 

Mr. Hengist got quite excited, and banged the arm of 
his chair with his fist. 

“Of course she’s dangerous!” he said loudly. “All the 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


7 


more so because she’s Mid-Victorian! Already she’s 
taught Elizabeth to be careful that her skirt doesn’t get 
above her knees.” 

“Well, I don’t see anything wrong in that,” said Law¬ 
rence, pondering it. “I don’t approve of this modern 
tendency to show your knees.” 

“I’m not talking about her knees!” shouted Mr. 
Hengist. 

“But you said—” 

“Don’t be so damned literal, Lawrence! That’s only 
an example. Not that there’s anything wrong with Eliza¬ 
beth’s knees. Far from it. That covering of them up is 
illustrative of the whole system. Cover ’em up if you 
like, but don’t be for ever morbidly anxious that they 
should be covered. It’s heading straight for a covered up 
mind. Mid-Victorianism. If a thing’s true it’s beastly, 
so don’t face it. Cover it up! Pretend it isn’t there!” 

Lawrence became pompous, and crossed his legs. 

“I consider that there’s too much license permitted these 
days in speech. When I was a boy girls didn’t—” 

“Shut up. Don’t talk drivel. Supposing they didn’t? 
We’re progressing, aren’t we? You didn’t do the same as 
your father in his youth, did you ? ’ ’ 

This was difficult to answer. Lawrence uncrossed his 
legs. 

“Well, I still maintain that all this freedom of speech 
doesn’t lead to any good. I should be very sorry to think 
that Elizabeth was setting herself up against her elders, or 
talking immodestly.” 

“You’re no better than a decayed turnip,” said Mr. 
Hengist flatly. “If a girl of Elizabeth’s age is always 
careful not to mention something that might be considered 
improper it’s a fairly sure sign that her mind’ll be a sink 
by the time she’s thirty—unless some man marries her and 
knocks the nonsense out of her.” 


8 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Really, Hengist, I can’t see that—” 

‘‘No, because you don’t want to see it. Probably you 
don’t know that Elizabeth is fast becoming a humbug. 
She hasn’t got a mind of her own; she echoes her aunt. 
She pretends to like things her aunt thinks she ought to 
like, she can’t develop because her aunt won’t let her. 
She isn’t even allowed to read what she likes.” 

“You can’t seriously be advocating an unrestricted li¬ 
brary for Elizabeth!” said Lawrence, very sarcastically. 

“No,” Mr. Hengist had paused, and considered, frown¬ 
ing. “No. But surely it’s easy enough to keep the books 
she isn’t old enough to read out of her way? There are 
jolly few, anyway.” 

“My dear Hengist, some of these moderns—!” 

“She wouldn’t understand ’em. Better let her read 
modern realism than morbid sentimentality. For God’s 
sake teach her to face facts!” 

Lawrence thought that it was time to put a stop to the 
discussion. Hengist was talking nonsense, of course, but 
it was rather disturbing. 

“As I said before,” he smiled, “we all know that you 
bachelors have eccentric notions on the upbringing of 
children. I think we can trust Anne to look after Eliz¬ 
abeth,” 


CHAPTER TWO 


Elizabeth at sixteen made a great discovery, that Men 
were fascinating, much more so than girls. Hitherto she 
had known no Men, only Father and Mr. Hengist, and 
people like the doctor and the dentist and shop-assistants. 
Somehow they did not seem to be Men, at least, not with a 
capital M. They were creatures who wore trousers; there 
was nothing exciting about them. 

But Marjorie Drew’s brother Tony was something en¬ 
tirely new and thrilling. He was twenty-two and had just 
come down from Cambridge. He thought Elizabeth was 
pretty, like a wild-rose. Marjorie laughed, and said, no, 
a prim-rose, and Tony was quite angry with her. He said 
Elizabeth was a little shy violet, or perhaps a snowdrop, 
until Marjorie grew tired of hearing horticultural similes, 
and left him. 

Until he met Elizabeth Tony had rather thought that 
he was passionately in love with an attractive lady of 
thirty-three, living at Bedford, but now he began to think 
that he had mistaken his heart. The lady, one Mrs. Lam¬ 
bert, treated him as a boy and made him run errands for 
her; Elizabeth looked shyly up at him and was all admira¬ 
tion. It was rather refreshing, but of course Elizabeth 
was only a kid. 

So Elizabeth, who had never known a school-girl’s pas¬ 
sion for one of her own sex, plunged into her first love- 
affair, and hugged it to her, and sighed, despaired, re¬ 
joiced and fluttered. 

Luckily for her peace of mind Miss Arden knew nothing 
of the tumult that raged in her niece’s bosom for six short 

9 


10 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


weeks—Tony went to Scotland then, and by the time he 
came back the fickle flame had gone out. Miss Arden 
would have been shocked beyond measure if she had known 
of Elizabeth’s passion. She was not altogether pleased 
when Elizabeth, in an expansive moment, confided that she 
liked men. To be sure, there wasn’t anything exactly 
wrong in liking men, but it was not at all the thing that 
Miss Arden would have said when she was a girl. On the 
contrary, she had always affirmed and would still affirm 
if directly questioned that she disliked men. It was a poor 
compliment to her father and brother, and it was naturally 
untrue, but she did not know that. She would have found 
it hard to believe that men did not like her, and if anyone 
had had the courage to suggest it she would have been in¬ 
dignant at the impertinence of the male. 

She knew nothing about men, but she was fond of 
generalising. Elizabeth learned that woman was superior 
to man always. Men had to be snubbed and kept in their 
places; they lived strange lives, and were a nuisance about 
the house. Even Father caused a deal of trouble, dropping 
cigar ash on the carpet, and never standing the cork-mat 
in the bathroom up on end. 

Aunt Anne was very excitable on the subject of women’s 
rights. She wanted to be in Parliament and to sit on 
juries, and even Mr. Hengist could not argue with 
her because she became so angry and so illogical, and said 
that she had not patience with him or with anyone else. 
And when Elizabeth, wrinkling her pretty brow, said that 
she thought women would be rather silly on juries, Aunt 
Anne told her that she was only a child and didn’t know 
what she was talking about. So the Rights of Women 
were not spoken of at home; it was safer that way. 

Elizabeth became a flapper and tied her hair back in a 
large bow at the back of her neck. Lawrence began to 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


11 


notice her and said, By Jove, what a beautiful girl she was 
going to be! He called her his pretty little daughter, and 
Elizabeth went at once to study herself in the mirror. She 
had always thought that she was nice-looking, but until 
Lawrence called her pretty she had not realised to the full 
the beauty of her great brown eyes with their long lashes 
like shadows about them, or the fascination of her short 
upper lip and little straight nose. She fingered the masses 
of her dusky hair, and discovered breathlessly that her 
shoulders sloped slightly and were milk-white. 

Lawrence began to talk of her coming out as soon as the 
War was over, but Miss Arden begged him not to think of 
that yet. 

“I want to keep the baby as long as possible/’ she 
sighed. 

Lawrence thought this was absurd, but he supposed all 
women felt like that. 

*‘Well, I don’t know/’ he said. ‘‘Personally I don’t 
see that there’d be any harm in it.” 

“It’s such a pity to let her grow up so soon,” Miss Ar¬ 
den answered. “I don’t want to see the bloom knocked 
off yet. ’ ’ 

This sounded rather alarming; Lawrence had an idea 
that he had heard the expression before. 

“Oh, but she’d be chaperoned!” he said vaguely. 

Miss Arden shook her head and became melancholy. 

“It can never be the same again,” she said. 

“The same as what?” Lawrence was dense, so like a 
man. 

Miss Arden knew quite well what she meant, but unfor¬ 
tunately it was difficult to explain. She sought refuge in 
a well-used formula. 

“Ah, you can’t understand, Lawrence! You’re only a 

v> 


man. 


12 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


It was conclusive; Lawrence had no pretensions to¬ 
wards understanding his daughter. He did not say any 
more. 

Since the War had broken out Mr. Hengist had fallen 
very low in Miss Arden’s estimation. He made munitions, 
which was most worthy, of course, and he would talk about 
the War in front of Elizabeth. Miss Arden found him 
impervious to hints; she was forced to speak plainly. She 
said:— 

* ‘Mr. Hengist, I wonder if you would mind not talking 
‘War’ here? Atrocities and things. We know they hap¬ 
pen, but I don’t think there’s any need to speak about 
them.” 

“You know they happen,” he answered. “Does Eliz¬ 
abeth?” 

“I hope not,” she said gravely. “I don’t approve of 
young girls reading about all these horrors.” 

“Most girls of Elizabeth’s age are doing War-work, and 
facing facts.” 

“Elizabeth is only seventeen,” she reminded him frig¬ 
idly. 

“She’s old enough to know that life isn’t always ro¬ 
mantically rose-coloured. ’ ’ 

Miss Arden rose, and put a stop to a possible dis¬ 
cussion. 

“I think I am the best judge of what is best for Eliza¬ 
beth, Mr. Hengist.” 

Mr. Hengist checked a groan. It was hopeless to argue 
with Miss Arden; she defeated you at every point. 

But the War ended and there was no need to talk about 
it any more. Elizabeth began to attend classes, and went 
on a sketching tour, with Miss Arden in the background, 
to Brittany. She enjoyed herself immensely, and when 
she came back her father cried, By Jove, she was taller 
than ever and quite a young lady! 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


13 


He began to picture himself in the role of proud father. 
It would be rather jolly to take Elizabeth out to parties. 
He cast a surreptitious glance at the mirror and imagined 
his friends’ surprise at finding that he possessed a grown-up 
daughter. Really, Elizabeth was quite lovely; moreover 
she was quiet and docile, unlike these terrible modern 
girls who wore short skirts, swore, and bobbed their hair. 
He thought how delightful it would be to display her, 
virginally shy, at the Opera, when people would surely 
wonder who that distinguished-looking couple were. Prob¬ 
ably he would be taken for an elder brother, or perhaps 
a youthful uncle. Except for an almost imperceptible 
silveriness at the temples he had worn well, remarkably 
well, and kept his neat figure. So many men, notably 
poor old Hengist, seemed to have become baggy and stout. 

Miss Arden did not fit in with the picture at all, which 
was annoying. Poor Anne, she had become woefully thin, 
and she could never wear her clothes as though they be¬ 
longed to her. He reflected, conscious all the time of dis¬ 
loyalty, that Anne had never had the dress-sense. She 
followed the fashions of five years ago, or more, and some¬ 
how she seemed unable to wear the right clothes for the 
right occasion. 

Lawrence admitted that he knew very little about 
women’s clothes, but he rather thought that he had an eye 
for colour. Anne was too fond of mixing her colours: 
she would wear black shoes with a brown frock, and per¬ 
haps a grey golf-jersey, and always powdered her nose 
inadequately. 

Secretly he decided that Anne would have to be left out 
of a good many parties. Probably she would prefer to 
stay at home. When one came to think of it it would be 
positively unfair to expect Anne to chaperon Elizabeth 
everywhere. He would do that; it was his duty, and cer¬ 
tainly he would not shelve it on to Anne’s shoulders. Be- 


14 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


sides, it was no longer the custom to chaperon debutantes, 
and although he by no means approved of this laxity, 
he thought it would make Elizabeth less conspicuous if 
he performed the rite. No one would think that he was 
Elizabeth’s father. 

He became affectionate towards Elizabeth, and thought 
that it was not every man who possessed so beautiful a 
daughter. He said:— 

‘ ‘What has my little girl been doing with herself all 
day?” and stroked her hair. 

Elizabeth looked at him, rather puzzled, and answered 
that she had been doing the usual things. She wished that 
he would not stroke her hair; she hated to be touched. 

“We shall have to think about bringing you out, eh?” he 
said, smiling. ‘‘What about putting this hair up?” 

Elizabeth glanced at her aunt. 

“Can I, Auntie?” 

“Oh, it’s very early days yet, darling! Lawrence, I 
thought perhaps when she’s nineteen—” 

“Oh, nonsense!” he said. “You’re quite old enough 
now, aren’t you, Elizabeth?” 

“Yes, of course I am. Do let me, Aunt Anne!” 

“You must do as your father wishes,” Miss Arden re¬ 
plied in a tone that warned Lawrence that if harm came 
of it the blame was his. 

He was relieved to find how easily he had won his point, 
and rubbed his hands together, nodding at Elizabeth. 

“And my little girl will have to have some frocks, won’t 
she? I’ve been thinking of making you a dress-allowance 
for some time. What do you think of that?” 

Elizabeth thought it a delightful idea, but she wished 
her father would not talk to her as though she were a 
child. 

“Thanks awfully, Father,” she said dutifully. “I’d 
love it.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


15 


“And will yon let your old Daddy come and help you 
choose your pretty dance-frocks ? ’ ’ 

Elizabeth had never called her father Daddy, and she 
looked at him now in undisguised astonishment. So did 
Miss Arden, but her look said frankly that she thought 
Lawrence was mad. This new attitude he had adopted was 
wholly unnecessary. It was almost as though he were try¬ 
ing to draw Elizabeth away from her. 

“And is Auntie to be shut out of all these exciting 
plans ?’ ’ she asked brightly. 

“Oh, Auntie!” Elizabeth cried, embracing her. “How 
can you!” But even as she said it she was conscious of a 
wicked little hope that Aunt Anne would not always want 
to be one of the party. She didn’t care for Father much 
—at least, she loved him, of course, because he was her 
father—but going to dances with him sounded more at¬ 
tractive than going to them with Aunt Anne. And very 
desperately she hoped that she might be allowed to choose 
her own frocks, and—more desperately still—her own 
lingeries. Aunt Anne said that the modern lingerie was 
almost indecent, and that it was most unsuitable to have 
everything made in silk; she inclined to stout materials 
with high necks, and buttons down the front. Elizabeth 
always agreed that they were far more sensible, but se¬ 
cretly she hated them, and longed for a set of silk under¬ 
clothing, in primrose, she thought, just to see what it was 
like. Perhaps this new, playful Father would understand, 
only it would be rather difficult to broach such a delicate 
subject to him. 

Lawrence paid her allowance into the bank, and gave 
Elizabeth a cheque-book, which made her feel most eman¬ 
cipated and important. He criticised her efforts at hair¬ 
dressing, and for a whole hour, under the hostile eye of 
Miss Arden, taught her how to put it up so that the wave 
in it showed to the best advantage. 


16 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


He was cunning when he took Elizabeth to choose her 
evening frocks. He came home from the office at mid¬ 
day, quite unexpectedly, and said that he was going to take 
Elizabeth to Bond Street. He pretended that he had for¬ 
gotten it was the afternoon set apart by Miss Arden for 
the Mothers' Meeting. 

‘‘Can’t you put it off?” Miss Arden said, rather snap- 
pily. “You really can’t go and choose Elizabeth’s frocks. 
It’s hardly a man’s sphere.” 

Lawrence began to feel very guilty, but he brazened it 
out. 

“Rubbish, Anne! After all, I am her father. But I’m 
sorry you can’t come. Too stupid of me. I can’t think 
how I could have forgotten this was your Mothers’ day. 
I suppose you couldn’t desert the meeting for once?” 

“It’s most annoying,” said Miss Arden. “Of course 
I might send a note to Mrs. Hemingway ...” She con¬ 
sidered, drumming her fingers on the table. 

Both Elizabeth and her father sat quiet, watching her, 
and trying not to hope that she wouldn’t come. Eliza¬ 
beth looked mournful; Lawrence was anxious. 

“No, I can’t possibly cut the meeting,” Miss Arden said 
at last. “It’s a pity you didn’t tell me before.” 

“It only just occurred to me to-day,” Lawrence ex¬ 
plained, “or of course I should have.” 

Miss Arden was hurt; you could see it in her face; hurt 
and cross. 

“Perhaps we could put it off,” Elizabeth suggested. 

Lawrence thought that was unnecessary of Elizabeth. 
He shook his head sadly. 

“I’m afraid not. I shall be tied to the office all the 
rest of the week. This is really my one free day.” He 
thought perhaps this sounded too ungracious. “Never 
mind about the meeting, Anne. I’m sure the Mothers can 
spare you.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


17 


Elizabeth wished that Father were not so anxious that 
Aunt Anne should accompany them, but she choked the 
wish down, and said, “Do come, Auntie.” 

But Miss Arden refused. She went away to the meet¬ 
ing, martyrlike, and Elizabeth felt a dreadful joy at see¬ 
ing her go. 

Home was in a tidy backwater of Kensington, called 
The Boltons; Lawrence hailed a taxi chunking up the 
road, and put Elizabeth into it. 

“It was a pity your aunt couldn’t come,” he remarked 
as he got in beside Elizabeth. 

“Yes, wasn’t it?” she agreed. 

i 1 Though I’m not at all sure she wouldn’t have been too 
tired,” he went on. “One has to be careful that she 
doesn’t overdo it, you know. We probably shan’t be 
back till dinner-time. I shouldn’t have liked to feel that 
we were dragging her about till that hour.” 

Elizabeth thought that he could not know Aunt Anne 
very well if he imagined that she would be tired after one 
afternoon’s shopping. A faint suspicion dawned in her 
mind that Father was talking like this simply to salve his 
conscience. She banished the suspicion and thought that 
after all there was some truth in what he said. Aunt 
Anne was too eager to sacrifice herself to others. She 
told Lawrence this, and he was pleased with her, and said 
that she had hit the nail on the head. 

It was not until after tea, when three frocks had been 
chosen, that Elizabeth dared to ask about the silk lingerie. 
She had become more at ease with Lawrence, and he had 
liked all the prettiest frocks. 

Elizabeth paused tentatively before a shop-window, and 
blushed. 

“Father—I think I ought to have—if you don’t mind— 
just for evening wear—some of—of those things.” 

Lawrence turned to look at the shop, and then he stared 


18 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


at Elizabeth. She kept her eyes downcast, and thought 
how awful it was of her to have spoken. 

“Well, well!” Lawrence broke into a laugh. “I can’t 
very well go in there with you, can I?” 

Elizabeth’s lashes fluttered upwards. 

“I could go alone—if you’d wait! I’ve—brought my 
cheque-book. ’ ’ 

The afternoon had been a success; Lawrence felt indul¬ 
gent. 

“Well, in with you,” he said. “I wonder what your 
aunt will say?” Then he thought this was being disloyal, 
and hastily added, “Of course she won’t object, as they’re 
only to wear with the dance-frocks.” 

“Oh, yes, only with them!” Elizabeth agreed. 

She was a long time in the shop, but Lawrence, who 
had been buying cigars, did not realise this. He patted 
her arm and hoped that she had got what she wanted. 

Elizabeth thought of the piles of silken garments set 
aside to be sent to her, and stepped out briskly. 

“Yes, rather!” she said. 

Lawrence said that she was a little puss, and put her into 
another taxi. On the way home he confided to her that he 
had long considered buying a car. 


CHAPTER THREE 


Elizabeth looked so pretty in her new clothes that Miss 
Arden said nothing about the silken lingerie. She told 
herself that it was only for the evening, and gradually she 
was able to believe it. 

When Lawrence bought a four-seater coupe she said 
that she couldn't get over it. Lawrence told her that she 
wasn’t expected to get over it, only into it, and because 
he was palpably delighted with the joke, Miss Arden and 
Elizabeth both laughed at it. 

Lawrence learned to drive the car, but there was also a 
chauffeur, which was just as well, as if anything went 
wrong Lawrence didn’t know what to do. He lived in 
morbid dread of punctures, and whenever the car back-fired, 
which was often, he got out and felt all the tires. How¬ 
ever he was very proud of being able to drive a car, and he 
looked very important when he sat behind the wheel. 

“There’s a great deal in driving,” he told Mr. Hengist, 
confidentially. “It’s by no means so easy as it looks.” 
He saw a large lorry approaching, and became agonised. 
Once safely past:—“I suppose any fool can drive a car, 
but it needs practice and a cool head to be able to drive 
well.” 

“Yes, I’ve no doubt you’ll improve in time,” said Mr. 
Hengist cruelly. 

Luckily Lawrence was changing gear, a noisy and a 
perilous process, and he did not hear this remark. 

“The fellow who taught me said that it’s amazing how 
dense some people are about learning. Then too, lots of 
men start driving much too fast. I don’t approve of 
that at all.” 


19 


20 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Thank God!” said Mr. Hengist fervently. 

“The whole point about a car, to my mind, is enjoy¬ 
ment, ’ ’ Lawrence said, swerving drunkenly to avoid a pot¬ 
hole. “There’s nothing enjoyable in scorching.” Ex¬ 
perimentally and cautiously he removed one hand from the 
wheel. It was rather daring, he felt, but impressive. 
“Elizabeth wants me to teach her,” he said. “I don’t 
think there’d be any harm in it. Of course I shouldn’t let 
her drive about alone. Either Jenkins or I would go 
with her in .case of accidents. It was really an excellent 
idea of mine to buy a car. I can’t think why I never 
did it before. By the way, what do you think of my little 
girl? I took a hand in choosing her clothes. Poor Anne 
—she means well, but she can’t dress. I don’t know 
whether you’ve noticed it ? I flatter myself Elizabeth looks 
very well in her new things, very well indeed. What do 
you think?” 

“She’s very pretty,” Mr. Hengist agreed. 

“Not only that, Hengist. Of course you don’t know her 
as I do, because you’re not her father, but I assure you 
her beauty isn’t only facial. When I see all these modern 
young minxes with their cigarettes and their backless 
gowns, I realise what a complete success Elizabeth’s up¬ 
bringing has been. No offhand manners and horrible slang 
words, but—well, I often think myself that she’s just like 
a violet. Some poet or other, I’ve forgotten for the mo¬ 
ment who it was, wrote something remarkably apt about 
a violet. Just fits my little girl. Something about 
‘modest violet in the dell.’ I daresay you know what I 
mean?” 

“No, but it sounds fairly mawkish. I’m willing to ad¬ 
mit that Elizabeth has nice manners. She spoils herself 
by being insincere.” 

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Lawrence. “I 
don’t believe my little girl has ever entertained an unkind 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 21 

thought about anyone. She has such an affectionate dis¬ 
position/ ’ 

‘‘ When did you discover all this?” Mr. Hengist asked. 

Lawrence looked rather hurt. 

“It’s natural that her father should know what she’s 
really like, ’ ’ he said. 

They came into traffic so that out of consideration for 
his own safety Mr. Hengist forbore to retort. A van- 
driver asked Lawrence what the ruddy hell he thought 
he was doing, but otherwise there was no unpleasant¬ 
ness. Lawrence emerged triumphant and remarked that 
one soon got into the way of guiding a car through 
traffic. 

“It would not surprise me if that van-driver was the 
worse for drink,” he said severely. “A most uncalled- 
for piece of impertinence. What were we saying? Oh 
yes, about Elizabeth. I’m taking her to Mrs. Carfew’s 
dance on Wednesday, and perhaps to the Opera next 
week. ’ ’ 

“Who are the Carfews?” Mr. Hengist asked. 

“Oh, some people Anne called on not so long ago. I 
know old Carfew in the City, and now that Elizabeth is 
‘out’ I thought it might be as well for Anne to call on 
Mrs. Carfew. I am making a point of getting to know 
more people.” 

“You’re certainly doing your duty, even if it is belated,” 
Mr. Hengist admitted grudgingly. “Is your sister go¬ 
ing to the dance too?” 

Lawrence decided to ignore the first half of this speech; 
one had to make allowances for Hengist, poor chap. He 
was becoming quite a crusty old bachelor. 

“Well, it’s rather difficult,” he said. “The invitation 
is for Elizabeth and ‘partner.’ I must say, this new custom 
of expecting a girl to bring her own partner to a dance is 
a very strange one. I am not at all sure that I approve 


22 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


of it. However, I suppose one must remember autres 
temps, autres moeurs, and as it happened Elizabeth was 
able to ask the Benson boy to accompany her. There was 
no invitation either to me or to Anne. Manners are 
sadly lacking nowadays. Still, I should hardly think that 
Mrs. Carfew would object to the presence of an extra 
man, so I shall go too.” 

“Why?” asked Mr. Hengist. “Elizabeth doesn’t need 
a chaperon at a private dance—or at any other for that 
matter.” 

“It is not a question of chaperoning her,” Lawrence ex¬ 
plained. “It’s only natural that I should wish to be pres¬ 
ent at my little girl’s first dance. It’s a great pity that 
Anne cannot come too.” 

Elizabeth herself was looking forward to the dance with 
mixed feelings. She wished that she knew the Carfews 
better, or at any rate, Miss Carfew, who at first sight 
seemed rather alarming. Smartly dressed athletic girls 
frightened Elizabeth, who was sure that they despised her, 
and she could never think of anything to talk about with 
them. Then, too, she had read in books of girls finding 
themselves partnerless. How humiliating that would be, 
but how still more dreadful if she found herself unable to 
follow a man’s style of dancing! She wondered what 
you said to your partner; whether you made the conversa¬ 
tion or whether he did. 

She was incredibly nervous on the appointed evening, 
and sat shivering beside Lawrence in the car, thinking 
that her hair would come down if she tried to move the 
pin that was sticking into her head. Her hands were 
cold, and she felt rather sick, as if she were on her way to 
the dentist. The light-hearted demeanour of her father 
and of Denis Benson sitting opposite made her feel much 
worse; she would have liked to tell them how frightened 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


23 


she was so that they could reassure her, but that was quite 
impossible. 

Some of the nervousness left her when she stood in the 
ball-room. The orchestra was playing very loudly, and 
nearly everyone was dancing and did not notice her. 
Denis took her programme and asked if he might have 
every third dance. 

Elizabeth thought suddenly how nice Denis was to 
want all those dances. He looked so pleased when she 
smiled her consent that she felt it was not mere politeness 
that had made him ask. She had known him for such a 
long time too that it would not matter so much if she 
stepped on him or was heavy. 

“And this one?” said Denis, “before someone else grabs 
it?” 

No one had been introduced to her yet, so no one was 
likely to grab it, but it was rather flattering that Denis 
should think someone might. 

“If you like,” she said. “You know—I don’t dance a 
bit well. I’ve only had three lessons.” 

“Oh, rot!” Denis said, piloting her carefully round one 
corner. “You dance toppingly. Light as a feather. Jolly 
tune, what?” 

It was the first time Elizabeth had been in a man’s arms; 
she felt bewildered, shy, and unlike herself. Denis held 
her very close, with one hand over her shoulder-blade; its 
warmth, through her frock, struck her as being too familiar 
and just a little horrid. Sometimes his knee touched hers, 
and that was worse. She thought how she had always 
hated to be held, even by her father, and wondered 
whether she would ever grow to like dancing. Occasion¬ 
ally she saw Lawrence, over Denis’ shoulder, and when¬ 
ever she caught his eye he smiled and nodded at her in 
a way which showed her that he was pleased. 


24 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


The dance came to an end; Elizabeth slipped out of 
Denis’ arms, panting a little, and flushed. Mrs. Carfew 
came up, trailing black satin and jet, and murmured names. 
An alarming kaleidoscope of men scribbled their names 
on her programme, quite illegibly, and drifted away. 
Lawrence’s voice sounded in her ear. 

“Is my little girl enjoying herself?” it asked fondly. 

Elizabeth gave him a ’bright smile, and said yes, it was 
lovely. Then Denis took her to the room where the re¬ 
freshments were spread out, and gave her cider-cup which 
seemed to Elizabeth quite the nicest drink she had ever 
tasted, and certainly the most daring. 

The respite was brief; they heard the orchestra swing 
into a one-step, and Denis said that they ought to go back 
to the ball-room. He left her in the doorway, stranded, 
and went to claim his partner for the dance. 

Elizabeth tried to make out the name on her programme, 
unsuccessfully, and wondered how ever she would recog¬ 
nise its owner. A fair man with a monocle came up to 
her and bowed. 

“I think this is our dance, Miss—Er ... ?” 

“Oh, is it?” Elizabeth said, wishing that it was not. 
The fair man looked supercilious and rather bored; she 
was sure that he danced in a complicated style. 

She was rather surprised when he said nothing at all 
for the first few minutes of the dance, and decided that 
it was for her to open a conversation. Panic seized her; 
she could think of nothing to say, and all the time he was 
staring glassily across the room. His dancing was quite 
extraordinary, for his whole body seemed to move, bis 
shoulders most of all. She felt stiff and unyielding, and 
wished that he would not twist and turn so violently. She 
began to grow hot and miserable, thinking herself a fool 
to be unable to speak. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


25 


But presently the fair man cleared his throat and said 
something in a weary voice which Elizabeth could not 
hear. 

“I beg your pardon?” she said, knocking her toe against 
his. 

He took a firmer hold on her and repeated his remark. 

‘‘I suppose you dance an awful lot?” 

“N-no, this is my first dance,” Elizabeth answered. 

This seemed to discourage him, for he said no more for 
some time. His next observation was made just as they 
slid past Mrs. Carfew. 

“Not such a bad floor, is it?” he said. 

Elizabeth felt herself blushing for him; he could not 
have seen Mrs. Carfew. 

“I think it’s awfully good,” she replied. 

“Pity there’s no saxophone,” he remarked. “Rotten 
to have a band without one, don’t you think?” 

“I don’t know—quite—what it is,” Elizabeth confessed. 

He looked at her blankly, and said, “Oh, really?” He 
did not speak again until after the dance when he asked 
if he could get Elizabeth a glass of claret-cup or some¬ 
thing. She refused the offer, and then wished that she 
had accepted it: he looked so disappointed. 

“Well, er—better find a place to sit, hadn’t we?” 

They chose a sofa in a secluded alcove, and the fair man 
cleared his throat once or twice. 

“Ever been to the Hyde Park?” he enquired, after some 
mental research. 

Elizabeth thought he must have a very short memory if 
he had forgotten already that this was her first dance. 

< ‘ No. Is it nice ? I’ve always heard that it was lovely. ’ ’ 

“Oh . . .” He seemed to deprecate this enthusiasm. 
“Not so bad.” Again he racked his brain. “Have you 
seen Buzz?” 


26 


INSTEAD OF THE THOKN 


Elizabeth had read a criticism of the revue in the Morn¬ 
ing Post; it was evidently a vulgar performance with a 
good many bare-backed girls in it. 

“No, I haven’t,” she said primly. 

He sighed, and shook his head. 

“Wonderful show!” he said fervently. 

Her next partner was better; he was younger, and a 
lucky question brought forth the information that he owned 
a motor-bicycle. He was quite content to talk about it 
all the time, and although the description of its engine did 
not interest Elizabeth, at least she was spared the necessity 
of thinking out a good opening to a conversation. 

Later in the evening Lawrence asked her if she thought 
him too dull and old to dance. Elizabeth said no, at once, 
and got up. 

“Nothing at all in this modern dancing!” Lawrence 
puffed, treading heavily on her toes. “All you have to do 
is to shift from one foot to the other, and occasionally take 
a sort of sidestep. ... I beg your pardon!” This to the 
couple with whom he had collided. “Clumsy young 
bounder!” he whispered in Elizabeth’s ear. “I don’t see 
anything in it myself. It’s child’s play. You know, this 
room’s really rather overcrowded, Elizabeth. You can’t 
move an inch without having someone bang into you. And 
I can’t say that I admire this jazz-music. There isn’t any 
tune about it that I can hear, and the way that fellow 
keeps blowing the motor-horn is really most ridiculous 
and out of place.” 

Elizabeth had no breath to waste in answering. He 
swung her violently round and, when she stumbled, said 
reproachfully and with a touch of superiority that she 
didn’t seem to be able to fit her steps to his very well. 

Miss Arden was awaiting them at home in a red Pyre¬ 
nees dressing-gown and with her hair in curl-papers. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


27 


Elizabeth hugged her, feeling that she was back in haven 
after a storm. 

“Well, darling, and did you enjoy it?” Miss Arden 
asked, kissing her. 

“Of course she did,” Lawrence said, bustling in. “I 
can tell you, Anne, she was quite a success. Her pro¬ 
gramme was full up when I saw it.” 

Aunt Anne was so anxious to hear that Elizabeth had 
enjoyed herself, you could not possibly tell her how you 
had hated most of the men you had danced with, or how 
miserable you had felt when one of those awful pauses 
fell in the conversation. She would have been distressed, 
and would think you were blasee or affected. 

“Oh, I loved it, Auntie!” Elizabeth said. “I only wish 
that you could have been there too.” 


CHAPTER FOUR 


Sarah Cockburn was the most amazing girl in the world; 
all the more so because her mother was so quiet and ordi¬ 
nary. Sarah wore flaming jumpers and tweed skirts which 
showed a large expanse of check stocking. She smoked 
innumerable cigarettes, elegantly referred to by herself as 
gaspers, and swept her hair severely back from her fore¬ 
head. She was a newcomer to the neighbourhood, and 
Miss Arden took Elizabeth to call on her mother. Eliza¬ 
beth wore white kid gloves and sat on the edge of the 
chair, being seen but not heard, and Mrs. Cockburn, in a 
satin tea-frock, dispensed tea and talked to Aunt Anne 
about domestic worries, and the difficulty of finding a 
house. 

In the middle of the tea-party Sarah came striding into 
the room in brogue shoes and the woollen jumper and 
striped skirt of golf enthusiasts. She did not murmur 
any apologies for her unpunctuality, but went straight to 
Aunt Anne and shook hands. 

“How d’you do?” she said, and went on to Elizabeth. 
“B’lieve I saw you in the Brompton Road the other day. 
I say, you’ve got nothing to eat!” 

Neither Elizabeth nor her aunt knew who Sarah was; 
Miss Arden looked at her as though she were an escaped 
lunatic. 

“My daughter Sarah,” Mrs. Cockburn explained. “Dar¬ 
ling, this is Miss Arden, and Miss Elizabeth Arden.” 

Sarah offered Elizabeth a plate of cakes. 

“I don’t recommend the pink ones. They usually taste 
of sawdust,” she said frankly, then sat down on a foot- 

28 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 29 

stool beside the fire and put ber cup and saucer on the 
floor. 

“I had no idea you had a daughter/’ Miss Arden said, 
and looked inquiringly at Sarah. “I ‘don’t think you 
were at church on Sunday, were you!” 

“No, I never go to church,” Sarah answered, with a dis¬ 
arming smile. “It bores me horribly, and I come away in 
a most unholy frame of mind.” 

Elizabeth stared round-eyed. Within less than five min¬ 
utes this extraordinary girl had committed every breach 
of social etiquette possible, and now she said that church 
bored her. She cast a surreptitious glance at Aunt Anne, 
and saw that her face had assumed the wooden ex¬ 
pression it always wore when something had displeased 
her. 

“You’ve lived here ages, haven’t you!” Sarah said, ad¬ 
dressing Elizabeth. ‘ ‘ What’s it like! ’ ’ 

Elizabeth had always been told that the Boltons was 
the most attractive quarter of London, so central and yet 
so quiet. 

“Oh, it’s very nice,” she answered. “So convenient, 
and such a little backwater.” 

Sarah grimaced. 

“Are there any cheery people living here!—or is it 
frightfully conventional! At first glance it looks rather 
suburban—the sort of place where people never come to see 
you unless they’re asked.” 

It was that sort of place, but never before had Eliza¬ 
beth heard it spoken of in a disparaging way. 

“I think—people—are quite good about calling,” she 
said timidly. 

Sarah cast her a quick glance, then laughed. 

“I believe I’m shocking you. I’m awfully sorry, but I 
always say the wrong thing. Don’t I, Mums! ’ ’ 

“Yes, darling,” Mrs. Cockburn agreed placidly. “Miss 


30 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Arden has been telling me that there ’s quite a large bridge 
set here.” 

“Then you’ll be happy,” Sarah rejoined. “Mother’s a 
bridge-fiend,” she told Elizabeth. “I do hope you don’t 
play?” 

“No, I’m too stupid,” Elizabeth answered. 

“What a heaven-sent excuse! I’m too bad-tempered. 
If my partner dared to ask me why I’d led a spade in 
the second round I’m afraid I should chuck something at 
him. Cigarette?” 

“I don’t smoke,” Elizabeth said, rather regretfully. 
She thought how lovely it would be to breathe out two long 
spirals from your nostrils, as Sarah was doing. 

She was still dreaming of cigarettes when she walked 
home with Miss Arden. Miss Arden’s voice intruded on 
the dream. 

“On the whole, quite nice people. I thought Mrs. Cock- 
burn a very sweet woman.” 

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. 

“The girl is excessively modern, of course, but she’s 
young yet. I daresay she is less affected when one knows 
her better.” 

Elizabeth was surprised; she had expected a severe dia¬ 
tribe against Sarah, and could not imagine why Aunt 
Anne was being so lenient. 

“Rather a desirable connaissance,” Miss Arden con¬ 
tinued. “They seem to be very well connected and to 
know any amount of interesting people. You must ask 
Sarah to tea when they have returned my call.” 

“I’d like to,” Elizabeth said, brightening. “I wonder 
whether she’ll come?” 

Sarah did come; she told her mother that although 
Elizabeth was as dull as ditchwater, outside, she rather 
thought there was something more interesting inside, care¬ 
fully covered up. She inspected all Elizabeth’s books, 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


31 


tried to discuss Galsworthy with her, and ended by asking 
her to join the private dance-club to which she belonged. 

1 ‘Awfully cheery show,” she assured Elizabeth. “A 
great pal of mine, Lucy Elmsley, runs it, and as she’s a 
married woman I shouldn’t think your aunt ’ud object to 
your joining.” 

1 ‘1 should love to! How kind of you to ask me! The 
only difficulty is the partner. You see, I don’t know many 
men.” 

“Well, roll up at the next meeting—it’s on Friday— 
and I’ll supply a partner. I think you’d enjoy it.” 

“I’m sure I should,” Elizabeth said. “Only I’ll have 
to ask Aunt Anne. And are you sure it isn’t a dreadful 
nuisance having to find me a partner?” 

“Shouldn’t have offered to if it were,” Sarah said 
bluntly. 

It was Lawrence, and not Miss Arden, who objected to 
the arrangement. He complained that he did not know 
Mrs. Elmsley, whoever she might be, and he did not like to 
let his little girl join what might very well prove to be a 
fast set. However, Mrs. Cockburn and her husband came 
in that evening to make up a bridge-four, and Lawrence 
was so pleased by Mrs. Cockburn’s appearance and the 
excellent game she played that it was only necessary for 
her to use a very little flattery before he consented 
graciously to allow Elizabeth to join the club. 

So on Friday Elizabeth was driven in fear and trembling 
to the Knightsbridge Hotel, where the club met. She was 
purposely late because she had thought how awful it would 
be to arrive before any of the others, but now, as she 
entered the ball-room and saw the dense throng of people, 
she wondered why ever she had been so stupid, and how 
ever she was to find Sarah in this crowd. Some of the 
people circling slowly past her no doubt belonged to the 
club, others were merely habitues of the Knightsbridge, 


32 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


where a public dance club was held. How to distinguish 
the party to which she belonged, and how to find their 
table ? 

Then she saw Sarah in the arms of a very tall man, and 
Sarah stopped fox-trotting to tell her that their party was 
sitting in that corner, where those two girls were. She 
slid back into the throng, and Elizabeth was left to worm 
her way round the room to where several people were 
sitting, drinking iced-coffee, and smoking cigarettes. 

Elizabeth sat down shyly beside a fair girl who looked 
rather less terrifying than anyone else, and murmured that 
Miss Cockburn had told her to come. 

The fair girl looked at her and smiled. 

“Oh, you must be Elizabeth Arden! So glad you 
turned up. I’m Lucy Elmsley. How d’you do?” 

Elizabeth, who had expected to find Mrs. Elmsley a re¬ 
sponsible dowager, gasped. 

“That’s my husband over there, flirting with May 
Kimball. Isn’t he the limit? George, come and be intro¬ 
duced to Miss Arden!” 

George came, and as soon as he smiled Elizabeth thought 
what a dear he was. He introduced her to several men, 
and one of them asked if she would like to stagger round 
the room, now, before the band stopped playing this 
topping tune. So as Lucy Elmsley had drifted away to 
where a very fat man was standing, Elizabeth squeezed her 
way out between two tables, and began to dance with 
Chubby—this appeared to be her partner’s name; he was 
introduced to her as that. 

By the time she and Chubby, who turned out to be a 
most amusing youth with a vocabulary quite his own, re¬ 
turned to their corner of the room, nearly all the chairs 
were occupied by the rest of the party. 

“I don’t think there’d be much wrong with a drink 
of some sort,” Chubby remarked. “Damn, someone’s 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


33 


pinched the cigarette I left here. What about some iced- 
coffee, Miss Arden, or cider-cup ?’’ 

Elizabeth thought she would have cider-cup, so Chubby 
told a waiter to bring it, with two sardines on toast. 

“I couldn’t possibly eat sardines,” Elizabeth protested. 

“Good Lord, no!” Chubby said. “Only it’s after 
hours, and the rule of this blasted country is that you can’t 
have intoxicants after hours unless you have supper as 
well. So you order sardines. Everybody does, an’ 
nobody eats them. Some cove wafts them away when they 
get too racy, an’ they travel on to the next table. You’ll 
see: our sardines’ll be looking pretty weary by the time 
they reach us.” 

They were certainly dissipated, those sardines, and, they 
smelt very oily. Someone begged Chubby to bury them in 
the flower-pot at his elbow. To Elizabeth’s horror he 
promptly rose, and tipped them into the pot, where they 
probably made excellent manure for the azalea. 

Then Sarah came to Elizabeth, with a fair, monocled 
man at her heels. 

“Elizabeth, I want to introduce Mr. Ramsay. The nov¬ 
elist, you know. Stephen, this is Miss Arden. ’ ’ 

Stephen Ramsay had grey-blue eyes, and thin cheeks; 
Elizabeth thought he was interesting, and she admired his 
teeth, which were very straight and white. She had 
not read any of his books, which was awkward, but 
she remembered that she had seen his portrait in the 
“Bookman.” 

“Shall I be taking anyone’s chair if I sit here?” he 
asked, placing himself beside Elizabeth. 

“Yes, mine,” said Chubby, coming away from the 
flower-pot. “I say, thanks awfully for that dance, Miss 
Arden. What about it, Sarah?” 

“I don’t mind,” Sarah said graciously. “As long as 
you’re not too energetic.” 


34 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Stephen Ramsay did not seem to want to dance; he 
watched Chubby take Sarah on to the floor, and then he 
looked again at Elizabeth. She wondered whether she 
ought to say something about his books, but that was so 
difficult. Instead she asked whether he came often to the 
club. 

“No, I'm a spare man," he answered. His eyes 
crinkled attractively at the corners. “Cynthia—my 
sister—got an S. 0. S. message from Lucy Elmsley this 
afternoon to scratch up a male. So here I am. I'm 
glad I came now." 

Because she was very young and nervous Elizabeth said 
one of those silly things that girls say before they have 
gained their poise. She asked, why ? quite innocently. 
As soon as the word escaped her she realised that Stephen 
had paid her a subtle compliment, and she blushed hotly, 
afraid that he should think she was courting a more direct 
compliment. To cover her mistake she asked him hur¬ 
riedly whether he had seen Chubby’s way of getting rid 
of sardines. 

“Chubby's quite mad," he said. “He's got unmiti¬ 
gated cheek, and never fails to get away with it." 

“I like him," Elizabeth said, not in the least under¬ 
standing what it was that Chubby got away with. 

“Of course. Everyone does. By the way, would you 
like to dance, or would you rather sit out this one ?'' 

“I'd like to sit it out." She glanced up at him, 
through her shadowy lashes. “I've never talked to an 
author before." 

His vanity was flattered; he forgave her use of the word 
“author." 

“You looked so scared when Sarah introduced me that 
I guessed at once you hadn’t read my books," he said, 
laughing. 

“No, but I've heard people talking about them," she 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


35 


assured him. “Often. You wrote 1 Celandine,’ didn’t 
you?” 

“I did. My first, feeble effort. I’m glad you haven’t 
read it.” 

“I was told that it was good. Why are you glad?” 

* 1 Because it wasn’t good. The book I’ve just published 
never is. The masterpiece is always the next bctok.” 

“At that rate there’ll never be a masterpiece—in your 
estimation.” 

“I hope not. I’d be rather conceited if I ever thought 
my own book a masterpiece, wouldn’t I?” 

“I suppose you would. You wouldn’t come to dances 
any more, because you’d think it beneath your dignity.” 

“Not a bit. I’d come just to show myself, which would 
be worse. May I introduce you to my sister? She’s com¬ 
ing towards us now. Cynny!” 

Elizabeth saw that his sister was a fair girl in a wispy 
black frock with a jazz-sash. She was like her brother, 
only with blue eyes, rather light and hard. 

“Hullo!” she said, and removed her cigarette, in its 
long black holder, from her mouth. 

“Miss Arden—my sister, Mrs. Ruthven.” 

“How d’you do?” Mrs. Ruthven said. When she spoke 
she was not like Stephen at all; her words came trenchantly, 
jerked out. “Don’t let Stephen bore you, Miss Arden. 
He’s rather inclined to hold forth.” 

A glance passed between her and Stephen. Her eye¬ 
brows rose infinitesimally; she sat down opposite Eliza¬ 
beth, on the other side of the little table and waved a 
casual hand towards her partner. 

“My husband. Anthony, ask the Stowe girl to dance. 

She’ll be overcome.” 

“But I thought—” he began to expostulate. 

“Doesn’t matter,” said Cynthia curtly. 

He drifted away; he was amiable and rather fat, with 


36 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


kind eyes. Cynthia stayed and talked to Elizabeth, and 
Elizabeth discovered that she too wrote, not novels, but 
poems. She asked all sorts of questions about Elizabeth, 
but not as though she was really interested. Then, most 
surprisingly, she asked Elizabeth to come to tea one day, 
at her flat. 

Elizabeth stammered. 

“Thank you very much—I should love to,” which was 
not true, because Cynthia repelled her. 

“I’ll ring you up,” Cynthia said. “We’ll fix a date.” 
She rose, smiled, and walked away. 

“Do go and have tea with her!” Stephen said. “She’s 
rather startling at first, but she’s a very good sort at 
heart.” 

Elizabeth wondered whether she had been ungracious 
that he was able to read her thoughts so easily. He was 
smiling, and she felt more than ever attracted to him. 

“And now shall we dance?” he asked. 

He danced well, in a way that made her unconscious of 
her own mistakes, and he was protective and brotherly, as 
if he had known her all her life. He told her to let her¬ 
self go a little more, and to take a longer step. Elizabeth 
became intent on her dancing, and, consequently, danced 
badly. 

“Now I’ve made you nervous!” he said ruefully. “I’m 
awfully sorry. Don’t pay any attention to me. By the 
way, have I asked you if you dance here often?” 

She laughed, and when she did this her little nose went 
into fascinating wrinkles, and her eyes danced. 

“No, but please don’t! How did you know that that 
was a stock question?” 

“A girl told me so once, when I brought it out to her. 
I admit it’s fairly feeble, but you don’t know how appall¬ 
ingly difficult it is to think of anything to say to some 
girls.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


37 


This point of view had never before occurred to Eliza¬ 
beth ; ingenuously she told him so. 

“No man ought to find any difficulty in talking to you,” 
he said. “If anyone has, then he was without doubt a 
fool.” 

She had been looking up at him; now her lashes fell, 
and a little smile of dawning assurance trembled on her 
lips. Stephen wanted to kiss her; she was so elusive and 
fragrant. 

No one had ever talked to Elizabeth like this before, 
or had smiled down at her in quite such a way. He was 
as different from the man who would like to squeeze her 
hand and flirt as he was different from the man who was 
openly bored. Under the warmth of an admiring gaze the 
petals of shyness unfurled a little way and allowed, he 
thought, a glimpse of the flower’s heart. 

“Do you like these shows?” he asked suddenly. 

“Yes, I think so. Sometimes it’s fun. Do you?” 

“Usually they bore me. I find myself thinking that 
I’d rather be at home. Not to-night.” 

“Where do you live?” she asked. 

“In Kent, not far from Oanbrook. In an old Tudor 
house with a garden you’d love.” 

“Should I? Why?” 

“Perhaps you wouldn’t. If you’re a town-bird.” 

Evidently it was not nice to be a town-bird. 

“I don’t think 1 am. I don’t know much about the 
country because I’ve always lived in London, that’s 
all.” 

“Well, my garden is made to blend with the house. 
There are hollyhocks and pansies, and love-in-the-mist, and 
all the old-fashioned flowers that people have begun to 
turn their noses up at. And flagged paths, and a big, old 
cedar, and a stream at the bottom of the field with irises 
growing beside it.” 


38 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“It sounds beautiful/* she said. “I'm sure there are 
primroses too, and violets.'' 

“Little wild ones, not the sort one grows in unsightly 
frames. There's nothing rare in my garden; you might 
be disappointed. One of my neighbours has a garden full 
of large labels with Latin names on them much bigger than 
the poor little plant itself. He wins prizes at the Chelsea 
flower-show." 

The music stopped; Stephen held Elizabeth a moment 
longer in his arms, then let her go. They went back to 
their table, and all at once Elizabeth knew that she was 
enjoying herself. 

Stephen went away from the dance with Cynthia and 
with Cynthia’s husband, Anthony, in their two-seater. 
Anthony drove, and Cynthia was sandwiched tightly be¬ 
tween him and Stephen. 

“Well, what was the point of it all?" she asked 
abruptly. “I saw nothing in her." 

“Probably you didn’t try," Stephen answered. 

“Still more probable is it that there's nothing to see." 

Stephen was silent; he did not want Cynthia to know 
how fascinated by Elizabeth he had been; he was fond of 
Cynthia, she was his pal, but she had a way of being 
sarcastic when you were not in the mood for sarcasm. 

“Moreover," said Cynthia, “she's the last girl in the 
world I should have expected you to fall for." 

“Good lord, Cynny, I’m not in love with her!" 

“No, not at present. It'll surprise me if I find there's 
more to her than a pretty face." 

Anthony's voice, puzzled and groping, spoke from the 
other side of Cynthia. 

“What on earth are you two talking about?" he inquired. 

“Not a ‘what’ at all: a ‘she.’ Didn't you notice, An¬ 
thony?" 

“No, but then I never do," he said apologetically. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


39 


“ ’Matter of fact I hadn’t any time to notice anything this 
evening except my stud. The confounded laundry has 
gone and widened the what-you-may-call-it, and the damn’ 
thing keeps coming undone, Cynny.” 

“I’ll speak to them about it,” she promised, becoming 
maternal. “What we were talking about was Stephen’s 
latest. Dark girl with eyes.” 

“Oh, I know,” said Anthony. “Pretty kid; I danced 
with her.” 

“Well, keep off the grass,” Cynthia warned him. 
“Stephen’s got his thumb on her.” 

Stephen defended himself, laughing. 

“It’s all rot, Anthony. I don’t mind admitting that I 
was rather attracted. She’s refreshing and unmodern. 
I’m so tired of the slangy, hail-fellow-well-met girls. 
They haven’t got any reserves.” 

“Um!” said Cynthia profoundly. “Question is, which 
is the more satisfactory type to live with?” 

“There’s a lot in that,” Anthony agreed, firmly believ¬ 
ing that there was, since Cynthia had said it. 

“As I haven’t got to live with her the question doesn’t 
arise,” retorted Stephen. 

“And yet,” said Cynthia, “you’ll come up to town—to 
see me—on the day I have her to tea.” 

“I shall, yes,” Stephen replied frankly. “I’m inter¬ 
ested in her. She’s a type.” 

“Copy for the new book,” nodded Anthony. “By the 
way, how is the new book?” 

“Good in parts. I’ve been hung up over ‘Helen.’ She 
puzzles me, and until I met Elizabeth Arden to-night I 
hadn’t been able to find her counterpart.” 

“Oh, that’s what the book’s about, is it?” said Cynthia. 
“The modest violet. You fool, Stephen.” 

“Cynny, Cynny!” Anthony protested gently. “Don’t 
be cynical, old girl.” 


40 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


„ ‘ 1 He is a fool, Anthony, ’ ’ she insisted, smiling. 

“Yes, of course, but you shouldn’t sneer at that girl, 
darling; she’s a nice kid.” 

“I shan’t be allowed to sneer at anybody soon,” Cynthia 
remarked, entirely without rancour. 

“ ’Tisn’t necessary, darling, an’ I hate it.” 

“Go on, Anthony,” Stephen said encouragingly. 
“You’re the only person I know who can take Cynny 
down two or three pegs.” 

“Me?” Anthony leaned forward slightly to look across 
his wife at Stephen. “Why, Cynny’s a lot cleverer’n I 
am! Queer notions you do get into your head, old man! ’ 9 


CHAPTER FIVE 


Lawrence was quite excited when he learned that Eliza¬ 
beth had met Stephen Ramsay at the dance-club. He 
seemed to think that it was clever of her, and praiseworthy, 
for he puffed out his chest slightly and patted her shoulder 
a great many times, saying, Well, well, well! He wanted 
to know just what Stephen had said, and Miss Arden, also 
interested, just how he looked. Elizabeth tried to satisfy 
both her listeners, but she found it difficult, and floundered 
badly in her description. She had spent nearly half the 
evening exclusively with Stephen, but in the cold light of 
the following morning she could not remember exactly 
what he looked like. She thought his eyes were grey; cer¬ 
tainly he wore an eyeglass, but she felt sure that were she 
to meet him in the street she would pass him by. 

Lawrence was displeased, and remarked in an annoyed 
tone of voice that Stephen seemed to have made very little 
impression on Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth racked her brains, and managed to recall some 
stray fragments of their conversation last night, which 
quite restored Lawrence to good-humour. 

“A very bright young man, I should say,” he nodded. 
“I always thought that you might meet some interesting 
people at the club.” He paused, and looked impressively 
at Elizabeth. “ Never neglect an opportunity of getting 
to know people,” he said. “I'm very glad I encouraged 
you to join the club, very glad indeed.” 

4 < Ye-es, ’ ’ Elizabeth agreed doubtfully. * ‘ Only I thought 
that you didn't want me to join it? At first you were so 
very—” 


41 


42 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Naturally I had to think it over,” Lawrence said, 
frowning. It was tactless and stupid of Elizabeth to re¬ 
mind him of his preliminary mistrust of the club, just as 
he was forgetting about it. “I should be a pretty sort of 
father if I gave my consent to all your schemes without 
sleeping on them first. If I remember rightly you had 
already suggested staying at home when I finally decided 
that it would be very nice for you to go.” 

“Only because you—” 

“Don’t argue with your father, darling,” Miss Arden 
interposed. 

“And,” Lawrence went on triumphantly, “I advised you 
to join the club. If I hadn’t done that, in all probability 
you would have stayed at home. Then you wouldn’t have 
met Ramsay. I must say I am very pleased about that. 
I read his two books with great interest and I shall like 
to meet him.” 

“He lives in the country,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t 
think he comes to London much.” 

“He’ll come fast enough if there’s an attraction,” an¬ 
swered Lawrence playfully. “I have a shrewd notion that 
my little girl was a great success last night.” 

Elizabeth tried not to think that her teeth were on edge; 
she smiled, but shook her head. 

“Ah, well, we shall see!” Lawrence said. “Heaven 
knows I’m not a lion-hunter. Ramsay can stay away or 
come to call: it’s all one to me. And whom else did you 
meet last night?” 

“Oh, lots of people!” Elizabeth said vaguely. “Mr. 
Ramsay’s sister was there with her husband.” 

“Was she indeed?” Lawrence was becoming more and 
more complacent. “How did she strike you?” 

Elizabeth hesitated, and then compromised. 

“I thought she seemed very clever.” 

“I daresay,” Lawrence said wisely. “You liked her?” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


43 


“N-no, I don’t think I did. She asked me to go to tea 
with her one day.” 

“How extremely kind!” he exclaimed. “And pray 
what is your objection to this lady, Elizabeth?” 

“It’s—it’s hard to explain. She has such an—offhand, 
curt manner.” 

“My dear Elizabeth, you shouldn’t judge people on 
their exteriors,” Lawrence said severely. “I don’t like 
to hear my little girl flatly condemning someone because 
she has a queer manner. Then again one has to make al¬ 
lowances for people with brains.” 

“Why?” Elizabeth asked. 

This floored Lawrence completely; he took refuge be¬ 
hind a convenient snub. 

“My dear child, if you think a minute you will see how 
silly that question is. Much—er—much is forgiven a 
genius.” 

“Oh, I don’t think she’s a genius!” Elizabeth said. 

“Certainly not. I wasn’t suggesting such a thing. 
Don’t fall into that bad habit of catching people up, I 
beg of you. It’s most unbecoming. All I meant was that 
Mrs.—Mrs.—” 

“—Ruthven.” 

“—Mrs. Ruthven—that’s a very distinguished old name 
—is a clever woman.” 

“She writes poems.” 

“There you are, then. Writers very often have small 
peculiarities. One has to make allowances for them. It 
would be a dull world if we were all made alike. I strongly 
advise you to accept Mrs. Ruthven’s invitation, if she re¬ 
peats it. From all I can make out she seems to be a very 
nice woman. A most desirable connaissance. ” With that 
he rose, and went away into his study, taking the Times with 
him. No one was allowed to look at the paper until he 
had finished with it, and folded it inside out. 


44 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Rather to Elizabeth's surprise, Cynthia Ruthven did re¬ 
peat her invitation. Some days later a letter came from 
her to Elizabeth, addressed in a very large and bold hand¬ 
writing. Lawrence inspected it, and announced that Mrs. 
Ruthven wrote a good fist, and lived in a very nice part 
of the world. 

“I expect they have to pay a pretty stiff rent for a flat 
in Hanover Square," he remarked. “They must be quite 
well off." 

Even Aunt Anne thought it an excellent friendship for 
Elizabeth to make. So Elizabeth wrote to accept the in¬ 
vitation, and wondered secretly whether perhaps Stephen 
might not be there too. If so it would be really nice, but 
if not she did not think it would be nice at all. 

The Ruthvens’ flat was furnished very well, but in a 
modern style that Elizabeth found rather startling. She 
was conducted across a hall with a Bakst scheme of decora¬ 
tion to a room which she supposed to be the drawing-room. 

Cynthia was lost in the depths of an immense black chair, 
with her legs crossed and one foot swinging gently in its 
high-heeled shoe. That, and the blue smoke of her cig¬ 
arette was all there was to be seen of her. She rose and 
threw aside the book she had been reading. Elizabeth 
thought she had never seen anything so marvellous as 
Cynthia's gown, which was of primrose chiffon, presumably 
to match the room. 

“So glad you've come," Cynthia said, shaking hands. 
“Where would you like to sit?" 

Elizabeth chose the sofa, and at once wished that she 
had not, for it was so deep and soft that she could not sit 
upright as she would have liked to have done. She had 
the uncomfortable feeling that her knees were higher than 
her chin, and wondered why it was that she could never 
look graceful or at ease in a lounging position. Other girls 
did, and they didn't seem to feel at a disadvantage either. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


45 


Cynthia curled up again in her original chair, sitting 
sideways to face Elizabeth. 

* 1 Awfully decent of you to come and see me/’ she was 
saying. “It’s quite impossible to get to know anyone at 
a dance.” 

“I know,” said Elizabeth. “And there’s never time, 
somehow, to talk to other girls.” 

“Quite so. You’re looking rather fearfully at my pic¬ 
tures. Do you like them?*” 

“They’re very striking,” said Elizabeth politely. “Of 
course I don’t really understand Futurism.” 

“My dear girl, they’re not Futurist pictures!” Cynthia 
said, amused. “What you’re looking at is a Beardsley.” 

“Oh—is it?” Elizabeth had no idea what a Beardsley 
was, but she did not like to confess her ignorance. She 
changed the subject. “I love your yellow curtains, and 
the black carpet.” 

“So do I,” said Cynthia. “My mother says they make 
her feel bilious, but then she’s addicted to flowered chintzes 
and pink lampshades.” 

Elizabeth laughed, but she knew that she too liked pink 
lampshades. 

“Does your mo—Mrs. Ramsay—live in town,” she 
asked. 

“Officially. She drifts from Stephen to me, and from 
me to my uncle, and so on. She’s rather a delightful per¬ 
son, not in the least like Stephen or me. One of those in¬ 
curably vague women, you know, with a gift for saying the 
opposite to what she means.” 

“How amusing!” Elizabeth said. She would have liked 
to make a witty remark, but as usual she could not think 
of one. 

“Most, but trying to live with. She has a habit of get¬ 
ting her affairs into a muddle, and then Stephen or I have 
to try and unravel them. Anthony’s rather more success- 


46 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


ful than either of us. He’s a business man, so he ought 
to be, I suppose. Here’s tea.” 

Close behind the tea came Stephen, with his monocle 
screwed firmly into his eye, and his hair waving in a 
fashion which Elizabeth admired and he thought detestable. 

“Hul-lo!” Cynthia drawled. 

‘ 4 Don’t sound so pleased!” he answered. 4 ‘How d’you 
do, Miss Arden? Been to any more dances since I saw 
you ?’ ’ 

“Only one,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his. 

He bent to pick up the plate of hot cakes from the 
hearth, and offered it to her, smiling irresistibly. 

“Do ask me to partner you at the next club-meeting! 
Or is that cheek?” 

Elizabeth’s dimples came into play; she looked up at 
him with a hint of roguishness. 

“I thought you didn’t like dancing,” she said. 

“I don’t—always,” he answered. “Can I be your 
partner?” 

“Squash him,” Cynthia advised. “Milk or lemon?” 

“Milk, please. I don’t know whether I’m going to the 
next club-dance or not yet.” 

“When will you know?” demanded Stephen. “I think 
you’re being rather beastly to me. How’s the heir, 
Cynny?” 

“Rather pleased with himself,” she answered. “He 
pulled the coffee-pot over at breakfast, and the coffee ran 
all over Anthony’s new trousers. You ought to have heard 
him swear.” 

“Oh, have you got a baby?” cried Elizabeth. 

* ‘ I don’t wonder you ’re surprised, ’ ’ Stephen said. ‘ ‘ She 
doesn’t look as though she had, does she? As a matter of 
fact the kid does her credit. Topping little animal.” 

Cynthia bit deep into a cake. 

“I’m rather surprised myself when I look at him,” she 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


47 


said reflectively. “Clever of me to have produced any¬ 
thing so exactly what it ought to be. Nice sentence that.” 

Elizabeth was rather horrified at Cynthia’s attitude 
towards her baby, and was glad that Aunt Anne was not 
present to hear her. 

“I love babies,” she said. “Can I see yours?” 

“Certainly, if he won’t bore you,” Cynthia said, with 
uplifted eyebrows. “Do you really like babies?” 

The idea of not liking babies had never occurred to 
Elizabeth. Aunt Anne was always sentimental when con¬ 
fronted with one, and Elizabeth had unconsciously adopted 
the same attitude. The adoration of babies was an instinc¬ 
tive enthusiasm that every girl was supposed to have in 
her. If you didn’t like babies you would either be con¬ 
sidered hard and unfeminine, or affected. 

“Yes, of course I do,” Elizabeth said, opening her eyes 
wide. 

Stephen watched that innocent look and thought it 
charming. 

“I’m awfully glad to hear you say that,” he told her. 
“Most modern girls swear they loathe babies. A form 
of swank, I think.” 

“I don’t think I’m really a modern girl,” Elizabeth said 
wistfully. 

“Most girls honestly dislike babies,” said Cynthia 
trenchantly. “And always have disliked them. The only 
difference is that nowadays they don’t pretend to like them, 
whereas fifty years ago they did. I hated them before 
Christopher appeared upon the scene.” She nodded 
towards Elizabeth. “You’re an exception to the rule. 
Stephen, if you’ve finished tea you might go and collect 
your nephew.” 

Stephen departed, and returned presently with Chris¬ 
topher in his arms. He carried the babe in a manner pe¬ 
culiar to his sex, holding him very tightly, with the 


48 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


short frock well rucked up under his arm. Christopher, 
who was chubby and blue-eyed, grasped a strand of 
Stephen’s hair, and stared solemnly at Elizabeth. 

“What a pet!” Elizabeth cried, and rose, advancing 
towards him. 

Christopher promptly dug his head into Stephen’s 
shoulder and gave a protesting kick. 

“Chuck it!” advised his uncle. “That happens to be 
me.” 

“Is he shy?” Elizabeth asked. 

Cynthia rescued Christopher from Stephen’s clutch. 

“No, it’s a new accomplishment, that’s all. Sit up, 
Colombus, and be polite.” 

However, Christopher refused to have anything to do 
with Elizabeth, and made manifest his desire to go back 
to his uncle. Since he showed a tendency to roar when 
denied this wish he had his way and sat on Stephen’s knee 
making sundry pleased but unintelligible remarks. 

“I wonder what he sees in you?” said Cynthia. 
“Funny thing, Miss Arden, but he finds Stephen most 
f ascinating. ’ ’ 

“I can understand his admiration for me,” Stephen an¬ 
swered, dodging to avoid a poke in the eye, “but I wish it 
would find expression in a less strenuous way. Yes, that’s 
my tie, young sir, and you needn’t bother to undo it.” 

“Quite a family man,” Cynthia remarked. 

Christopher formed the topic of conversation until 
Elizabeth rose to go. Then Stephen handed him back to 
his mother, and asked that he might be allowed to drive 
Elizabeth home in his car. 

“Oh, but won’t that be taking you out of your way?” 
she protested. 

“No, rather not. Lord, the kid’s going to howl!” 

“Not at all,” said Cynthia, hastily distracting Chris¬ 
topher’s attention. “Don’t, Cherub, I implore you! 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


49 


Your papa’ll be home soon and you know he’s far nicer 
than Stephen.” 

Christopher appeared to consider this gravely, and evi¬ 
dently came to the conclusion that there was something in 
it, for he abandoned his intention of roaring, and instead 
smiled seraphically. 

Elizabeth shook hands with Cynthia, and hoped that 
she would come to tea with her one day next week. Then 
Stephen took her out and tucked her into his shining car. 

The drive home was all too short; since she had seen 
Stephen with Christopher Elizabeth thought him nicer than 
ever, besides it was most thrilling to be on such intimate 
terms with so famous a novelist. 

As luck would have it, Lawrence was just letting him¬ 
self into the house when Stephen’s car pulled up outside. 
He turned at once, and when he saw Elizabeth, came down 
the steps again. 

* 1 Well, well, so here you are!” he said, and looked in¬ 
quiringly at Stephen. 

“Yes, here I am. This is Mr. Ramsay—my father.” 

“That’s a very well-known name,” said Lawrence, shak¬ 
ing Stephen warmly by the hand. “You see in me a 
humble admirer. Come in for a few minutes, won’t you ?’’ 

“Thanks, sir. I’d like to if I may. Can you extricate 
yourself, Miss Arden?” 

“Yes, just,” Elizabeth answered, emerging from her 
wrappings. She got out of the car, and they waited for 
Lawrence to open the front-door. 

Aunt Anne was in the drawing-room, and she welcomed 
Stephen with rather less hostility than was usually ap¬ 
parent in her manner when a man was introduced to her. 

Stephen exerted himself to please both her and Law¬ 
rence ; with both he was successful. Lawrence talked very 
learnedly about books, and since he was evidently deter¬ 
mined to discuss Stephen’s latest novel, Stephen gave way 


50 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


after the very shortest of struggles and managed to look 
as though he were enjoying the discussion. 

“A very skilful piece of work,” Lawrence said warmly. 
“Now tell me, had you anyone in mind when you created 
‘ Francis'?” 

“Oh, just a type!” Stephen answered evasively. 

“Ah, yes, I suppose so. And that bit about ‘Patricia’ 
and ‘Colonel Longley’—excellent!” 

“Tm glad you liked the book, sir,” was all Stephen 
could think of to say. He contrived to change the sub¬ 
ject to motor-cars, and immediately Lawrence launched 
forth into technicalities. 

Undoubtedly Stephen was a success. 


CHAPTER SIX 


Elizabeth’s friendship with Stephen grew quickly after 
that; she feared he must be neglecting his work, so often 
did his yellow car purr to her door and stop there. He 
had won the approval of Lawrence; more important still, 
of Aunt Anne, who described him as a remarkably nice 
young man. Lawrence said that what he liked about 
Stephen was his lack of conceit and his modesty when 
forced to speak of his work. From the day when Stephen 
brought violets to Miss Arden, Elizabeth heard nothing 
but praise of him in her home. Miss Arden, fluttered by 
the gift of flowers—a gift that seemed to recall the days 
of her youth—saw in it only a delicate attention to herself, 
and not a wily move in the game Stephen was playing 
whereby he sought to enlist her sympathies and possible in¬ 
fluence on his side. 

It was some time before Mr. Hengist met Stephen, but 
Lawrence saw to it that he had little chance of remaining 
in ignorance of Stephen’s intimacy with the family of 
Arden. Lawrence formed a habit of dragging Stephen 
into any conversation, and he introduced his name in a 
simple and imposing manner. He said, Elizabeth’s great 
friend, Stephen Ramsay, and waited artistically for his 
audience to interject, Not the novelist ? After that it was 
easy. Mr. Hengist was the only man with whom this 
delicate opening produced no satisfactory result. Law¬ 
rence started neatly with:— 

‘‘Well, I’m inclined to agree with what Elizabeth’s 
friend, Stephen Ramsay, says on that subject.” He left 
a pause; Mr. Hengist removed his pipe from his mouth, 
and inquired:— 


51 


52 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“What does he say?” 

Lawrence thought this just like Hengist. He had to 
think very hard to remember what Stephen had said, and 
even then Mr. Hengist did not ask whether Lawrence 
was speaking of Stephen Ramsay, the man who wrote 
4 ‘ Celandine. ' ' 

Miss Arden, in a more direct form of attack, managed to 
arouse Mr. Hengist's interest. Brightly she said:— 

“I suppose you've heard that Elizabeth has made a 
new friend, Mr. Hengist?” 

“No,” he replied. “Who is it?” 

“Someone rather famous,” Miss Arden said. 
“Stephen Ramsay. Of course you've heard of him?” 

“Yes, I’ve read one of his books. What is he like, 
Elizabeth ? ’' 

11 1 like him very much,'' she answered. 

Mr. Hengist looked at her with slight irony. 

“I should like to hear you exchanging views with Ram¬ 
say,” he remarked. 

“I admire his line of thought,” Lawrence said pro¬ 
foundly. 

Mr. Hengist cocked a humorous eyebrow in his direction. 

“Oh, you do, do you?” 

“Certainly I do. What's your opinion?” 

“Well—” Mr. Hengist started in a leisurely way to 
refill his pipe— “He's clever, occasionally original, but to 
my mind he's too inclined to sacrifice sincerity on the altar 
of wit.” 

“I don't agree,” Lawrence said flatly. 

“Furthermore,” went on Mr. Hengist, “for one who 
writes on the psychology of woman he knows very little 
about woman.” 

Miss Arden raised severe eyes. 

“I'm sure Mr. Ramsay would be quite surprised if he 
could hear you say that he writes on that subject, Mr. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


53 


Hengist. I have not yet read his books, but I’m sure—” 

‘‘The modern school of novelists,” Lawrence inter¬ 
rupted, “is for ever probing into the character of woman. 
Stephen is young yet. In any case I think his handling of 
the subject most skilful and delicate.” 

“There seem to me to be too many books written nowa¬ 
days on those lines, ’’ said Miss Arden. ‘ I consider it most 
unnecessary. ’ ’ 

When Mr. Hengist at last met Stephen he seemed to like 
him. He discussed the Novel with Stephen, who grew 
quite excited, and ran his long fingers through his hair un¬ 
til it became riotous, and curled more than ever. He 
talked of Petronius Arbiter, and Lawrence coughed, with 
a warning glance towards Elizabeth. As Elizabeth had 
never heard of Petronius this precaution was useless. 
Mr. Hengist then said, take Le Sage, for instance, and 
once more they were plunged into a discussion. Lawrence 
informed everybody that he could see nothing in these 
Satirists, and that he thought that the adventures of Gil 
Bias de Santillone had better have been left untold. 

“Ah, then you are probably no admirer of Smollett 
either?” Stephen said. 

“No, I can’t say that I am,” Lawrence answered with 
perfect truth, having but the haziest notion of Smollett’s 
identity. 

“Smollett?” grunted Mr. Hengist. “A copyist, Ram¬ 
say. No Le Sage, no Smollett.” 

“Not entirely, sir,” Stephen maintained. 

Elizabeth sat silent, withdrawn into herself, thinking 
how clever Stephen was, and how delightful it was to know 
him. She was reading “Celandine” in her spare tiiue 
and trying to see Stephen in it. That was difficult, even 
rather perturbing because “Celandine” was a queer book, 
she thought, and sometimes, if she read it aright, rather 
broad. Much of it she did not understand; passages of 


54 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


obscure meaning caused her to wrinkle her brow and won¬ 
der whether she was dense, or just innocent. Yet it was 
surely impossible that the Stephen she knew, the man she 
thought to be the real Stephen, would write of things of 
which he would not speak to his girl-friends. Or if he 
wrote them, then he had for the moment assumed a pose, 
and was no longer himself but perhaps one of his own 
characters. 

Stephen knew that she was reading his book, and al¬ 
though he wanted her to read it and to like it, he was also 
anxious and strangely diffident. 

“You’re wasting your time,” he said once. “It’s mere 
froth. Don’t bother.” 

“You behave as though you don’t want me to read it,” 
she teased him. 

“I don’t. Yes, I do. Oh, lord, I don’t know whether 
I do or don’t! I’ll write something better, more worthy 
of your notice. The style of that’s bad—in parts. And 
it’s muddle-headed too, I think.” 

“No, no!” she said. “You mustn’t say that! It’s 
good, I know it is!” 

At that he laughed, but he was pleased, secretly. 

“All right, go on with it. Only when you’ve come to 
the end, be candid with me!” 

“Very well.” She looked up at him. “Sometimes it 
puzzles me because I can’t imagine that you really wrote it. 
Is it really you?” 

He thought for a moment. 

“I believe so—most of it. It’s difficult to probe beneath 
one’s self-deceit, but—yes, I think it’s me. So if you don’t 
like it after all, it’ll mean you don’t like me.” 

She shook her head. 

“No, for I shall know that the parts I don’t like aren’t 
really you.” 

“They’re probably more me than the parts you do 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


55 


like,” he said seriously, but again she shook her head. 

For him her fascination grew, till it was sweet to see 
her quietly sitting by the fire with the red light from the 
coals casting her profile into relief against the dark wall. 
It was sweeter still to dance with her and to feel her slim 
body in his arms, young and fragrant, and to look down 
into her face so near to his. He loved the dark hair bound 
closely to her head, and her lashes curling upward, or lying 
still against the cream of her skin, shading her eyes. He 
was awed in her presence, loving her innocence and the 
little ingenuous things that she said. Her silences seemed 
fraught with deep reflection; he wondered what were her 
thoughts, and what lay behind the softness of her eyes. 
That they were gentle, like herself, he knew, very young 
perhaps, and perhaps a little shy. 

She was aloof with him, retreating within herself. Senti¬ 
mental he thought, how virginal! She could never be inti¬ 
mate with him as other girls would be. She would bring 
everything there was in her, all her thoughts and her 
fancies, all the places in her soul kept secret, unspoiled to 
her husband. Then, as he saw her, in imagination, a bride, 
his hands clenched and his breath came faster, and he 
thought of the treasures that were hers to unfold, the 
frailty, and the exquisite purity. Young and immature 
she was, too young and too sweet to hold strong alien 
opinions, youjtg enough to be yet plastic, with intelligence 
to comprehend and to absorb a man’s teaching. 

It would be joy to lay a guiding, artist’s hand on her 
mind still unformed, joy, greater still, to be sure, as he 
was sure, that no other man’s lips had touched hers, to 
know that she was wholly his, with no old, forgotten flirta¬ 
tions lying behind her. 

That would gall him, he felt; he would never take to wife 
the girl who was careless of her kisses and flirted with 
every man who came. He knew many such, liked them, 




56 INSTEAD OF THE THORN 

had flirted with them, and knew that there was no harm 
in them beyond a certain volatility. It was not through 
Puritan spectacles that he regarded them; he knew them to 
be products merely of the new age, who had thrown away 
restraints in the same light-hearted way that they had 
thrown away their corsets. No doubt this recklessness, 
this brazen flaunting of charms that were more alluring 
veiled, was of no more than surface depth, yet he felt, 
singularly egotistic, that he would not choose a wife from 
this short-skirted, sleeveless sisterhood, but would rather, 
Oriental-wise, take a girl like Elizabeth, whom no other 
man should know. 

If Elizabeth were old-fashioned, then how well she 
would blend with the flowers of his garden. She belonged 
to the age of Sweet-Williams and London Pride; he pic¬ 
tured her, a maid of long ago, demurely gowned, with a 
tiny posy of flowers in her hands. Cynthia said that she 
harked from Mid-Victorian times, but Cynthia was wrong. 
The Elizabeth round whom he built his whimsical fancies 
belonged to no age, but was symbolic of the eternal dream 
woman. Least of all could she be typical of an age that 
was ugly, and saw indecencies everywhere, even in piano 
legs. 

Cynthia could not shatter his rosy dream, hard though 
she might try. Cynthia said, For God’s sake, come out 
of the mists! and wondered what had happened to him. 
She told him that he was cheating himself, that the Eliza¬ 
beth he was in love with was an Elizabeth of his imagina¬ 
tion and not the true one. He thought her jealous, even 
feline, and his beliefs remained unshaken. He coaxed his 
mother to call on Miss Arden and eagerly awaited her 
verdict. 

‘ 4 Such an alarming woman!” she said, smiling sweetly 
up at him. “Of course I said all the wrong things, Ste¬ 
phen. Wasn’t it dreadful of me?” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


57 


His mother might be vague and aimless, incapable of 
any reasonable thought, but she was his mother and he 
adored her. Now he laughed, and kissed her hand. 

“You always do, mater, so what’s the odds? You 
wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.” 

“No, I suppose I shouldn’t,” she agreed. “Do you like 
me as I am, darling?” 

“Yes. Who was the alarming woman?” 

“Oh, not Elizabeth, Stephen! Miss Arden. Her skirt 
dipped at the back and she said you were a charming young 
man. ’ ’ 

“Well, that ought to have pleased you,” he pointed out. 

“No, darling, not at all. No one but myself ought to 
know that you ’re charming. Where was I ? ” 

“You said Miss Arden alarmed you.” 

Mrs. Ramsay put down her tea-cup. 

“Did I? No, she didn’t exactly alarm me, except 
that she was so correct. I don’t really know the word I 
want.” 

“Never mind about Miss Arden. Did you see Eliz¬ 
abeth ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, she poured out the tea, and she didn’t forget that 
I don’t like mine strong. Quite a dear girl. She reminds 
me of someone, only I can’t remember who. Someone 
who lived at some place beginning with a B, I think. 
You must know, Stephen. No, I’ve got it. Marion Tap- 
ley; she died before you were born, poor thing. Yes, and 
she lived at Weybridge, and I remember thinking at the 
time that she just suited the place. She had an impedi¬ 
ment in her speech.” 

“Hang it all, mater, Elizabeth hasn’t got an imped¬ 
iment—” 

“What a horrible idea, darling! I shouldn’t have liked 
her at all if she had. As a matter of fact she has a very 
pretty voice. Such an asset! Do you remember Kate 


58 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


Dalkeith? Poor dear, she was almost ugly, but what a 
beautiful voice!” 

“Yes, mater, but we’re not talking about Kate Dal¬ 
keith.” 

She smiled happily across at him. 

“Nor we are. I’ve lost myself again. Oh, yes, about 
Elizabeth! Very young, Stephen.” 

* 1 Nearly twenty, mater. ’ ’ 

“Well, darling, that is very young. I don’t know how 
old you are—at least, of course, I do, but I’ve forgotten 
for the moment.” 

“ Twenty-seven. ” 

“Dear me, Stephen, what a dreadful thought! Why, 
Cynthia must be twenty-five.” 

“She is. You gave her that diamond brooch on her 
birthday. ’ ’ 

“So I did.” Mrs. Ramsay nodded pensively. “With 
an emerald in the middle.” 

• Stephen brought his cup to her to be replenished. Her 
small white hands fluttered over the tea-tray, from milk- 
jug to sugar bowl. 

“You don’t really like Elizabeth, mater?” 

“Yes, I do, Stephen. Why not?” 

“You don’t give me the impression—” 

“My dear, do I ever give people a right impression? 
Elizabeth seemed to me a very sweet child. But isn’t she 
rather a throw-back ? Or do I mean a missing-link ? ’ ’ 

“Good lord, I hope not! You mean that she’s old- 
fashioned ? ’ ’ 

“So prim,” she explained. 

There fell a tiny pause. 

“That’s rather a beastly word, mater.” 

Mrs. Ramsay put down the slice of bread and butter she 
had so carefully folded in half. 

“I’m sure it isn’t. What have I said that was awful?” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


59 


‘ 1 Prim.’ 9 

“Oh, that! It’s not awful at all, Stephen. I thought 
I’d said something I shouldn’t from your expression.” 

“So you did. Elizabeth could never be prim.” 

“Couldn’t she, darling? I expect you know her a lot 
better than I do.” 

This was unsatisfactory. Stephen glowered into the 
fire. 

“You’ve allowed Cynthia to influence your judgment, 
mater. ’ ’ 

“Dear Cynny! So domineering. No, I don’t mean 
domineering. Downright. That’s better.” 

“What did she say about Elizabeth?” 

“I can’t remember that she said anything. Oh yes, she 
did! She said Elizabeth hadn’t got a mind of her own! 
That’s rather true, Stephen.” 

“It’s not. She’s shy and reserved.” 

“I expect it’s the aunt,” Mrs. Ramsay said placably. 
“She won’t let Elizabeth have a mind of her own; she 
wants her to have her mind. Stephen, that’s rather clever. 
Now I know where you get your brains from.” 

He laughed, but reluctantly and like a sulky boy. 

“Because Elizabeth doesn’t smoke and doesn’t always 
say exactly what she thinks, whether it’s rude or not, 
Cynthia condemns her. That’s just like Cynthia. Beastly 
intolerance. ’ ’ 

“Yes, but we Ramsays are always dreadfully outspoken, 
dear.” 

“What’s that got to do with it?” 

“Lots. You see, Stephen, you’ve always been used to 
terribly frank people, and you’re the same yourself.” 

He rose and went to the fire, one hand on the mantel¬ 
piece and the other deep in his trouser-pocket. He spoke, 
looking down into the fire, and not at his mother. 

“What are you driving at, mater?” 


60 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Only that you’ve never been interested in a girl as 
you’re interested in Elizabeth, dear hoy.” 

“No.” He began to play with one of the china orna¬ 
ments near his hand. 

“And you sent me to see what I thought of her. Didn’t 
you?” 

“I suppose— Yes. You know, this is rather—” 

“Dreadfully. Well, I like Elizabeth, but I don’t know 
why I’d like her if I had to.” 

He raised his head, and Mrs. Ramsay saw that his eyes 
were crinkling at the corners. That hinted smile was re¬ 
flected on her lips at once. 

“Wouldn’t you feel the same about any girl, mater?” 

“Yes, I expect I should. Of course, darling, you’ll do 
as you please, and I shall be nice about it— Don’t you 
think I should be a charming mother-in-law?—only don’t 
rush into anything with your eyes shut. That would hurt 
me terribly.” 

“I’m not a bit likely to do that, mater.” 

“Yes, you are, Stephen. You’re so like your father.” 

The smile grew. 

“Well, if he rushed into marriage with you with his 
eyes shut I can’t do better than to follow his example and 
shut my eyes.” 

“My dear, what a beautiful compliment! But Eliza¬ 
beth isn’t like me, you know.” 

He looked wistfully down at her. 

“I thought you’d get on with her so well, mater. She 
is like you in some ways—at least, I think so.” 

Mrs. Ramsay went to him and put her hand up to stroke 
his cheek. 

‘ 1 Poor boy! I expect I shall get on with her splendidly 
when I see her away from her aunt. Anyway, don’t let’s 
worry! Only I do so wish it had been Nina Trelawney.” 

He moved one shoulder impatiently, and the vase he had 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


61 


played with, fell into the hearth and was smashed. 

“Damn. There was never any chance of that, mater. 
Sorry about the vase. Was it valuable?” 

“No, not a bit, I hated it. Break its twin.” 

He obeyed, absent-mindedly. Mrs. Ramsay watched the 
work of destruction with great interest. Then Stephen 
began to laugh. 

“Mater, how mad!” 

“Yes, but doesn’t china make a fascinating sound when 
it smashes? Can’t we break anything else?” 

“No, not to-day. Come down to Queen’s Halt next 
week and we’ll break those awful china dogs Cousin Freda 
sent us.” 

“What a splendid idea, Stephen! We might break the 
Crown Derby plates too.” 

“No, we can’t do that,” he objected. “Not Crown 
Derby. I don’t think I could.” 

“Think how blatant they are, Stephen. I’m sure I 
could.” 

“I know. Still . . . They’re too good to break.” 

“That makes it all the more exciting. We’d feel so 
wicked,” she said, dimpling. The dimples disappeared. 
“Elizabeth wouldn’t understand about smashing china, 
darling, would she?” 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


It was inconceivable that you could like a man and not 
his nearest relations. Excuses had to be found for Mrs. 
Ramsay and were quickly forthcoming. She was eccen¬ 
tric; it was deplorable, but an excuse; she was absent- 
minded: a fault, but one that made her the more attrac¬ 
tive. Lawrence located her in Debrett; she came of ancient 
stock, and not only had she married into the County, but 
she was herself County. Lawrence realized to the full the 
significance of this magic word; it was better in these 
days to be County than Titled. Mrs. Ramsay’s eccentricity 
pointed to no lack of breeding, but rather to her nobility. 
Miss Arden said that it was refreshing to meet anyone so 
delightfully unconventional. 

In an introspective mood Elizabeth knew herself to be 
drifting towards an alien pool. There was no mistaking 
Stephen’s ardour; it was obvious to all, so obvious that sly 
jokes were cut by Lawrence and Aunt Anne at her expense. 
About Stephen there could be nothing alien, but in the 
world where he dwelt was Cynthia, incomprehensible in 
her speech and manners, and Mrs. Ramsay, incomprehensi¬ 
ble too, and from Elizabeth, poles apart. 

Elizabeth felt it dimly, then thought herself morbid in 
her imaginings. She was bred in an atmosphere of class- 
distinction; she knew that in Miss Arden’s eyes she stood 
upon the brink of a successful marriage. She had thought 
about it many times, seeing herself the wife of a famous 
novelist, hearing herself referred to as County. It was 
snobbery, she knew, and scolded herself for indulging the 
vice, but the secret thrill remained, dominating her 
judgment. 


62 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


63 


In Miss Arden’s attitude towards her was a new tender¬ 
ness; did she forget some trifling behest or errand, Miss 
Arden would smile mysteriously and say, We’re very for¬ 
getful nowadays, aren’t we? with no annoyance, hut an 
evident satisfaction. 

“I am in love,” Elizabeth thought. “I must be in 
love.” 

But how difficult it was to distinguish between love and 
like! If love meant pleasure felt in Stephen’s company, 
and pride in his appearance, she loved. If it meant that 
she would be sorry never again to see Stephen, then surely 
she loved. Other girls spoke of heartaches, of longing and 
despair, but how often had she proved that other girls were 
different? Violent emotions bordered on indecency; the 
nearest approach to violence that she had achieved was an 
inward shudder of pure delight when Stephen was master¬ 
fully gentle, possessive. 

She saw herself fragile and precious in his eyes, and was 
glad. His tall proportions and his strength pleased her, 
and she loved to be asked:— 

‘ ‘ Who is that awfully good-looking man you danced with 
the other night?” 

She seemed to herself to grow in stature when she an¬ 
swered that it was a great friend, Stephen Ramsay, the 
novelist. How immeasurably proud she would be if ever 
she could say: It is my husband. 

1 ‘Are you in love with Stephen?” Sarah asked her. 

It was the first direct allusion; Lawrence and Aunt 
Anne dealt in innuendoes. Elizabeth blushed deeply and 
was embarrassed. 

“Sarah!” 

“Anyway it’s as plain as a pike-staff that he’s head over 
ears in love with you. Any amount of girls have run 
after him, but I’ve never seen him so absolutely struck 
before.” 


64 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


This was immensely satisfying; Elizabeth’s eyelids 
drooped, and she smiled. 

‘ ‘You ’re damn’ lucky,” said Sarah candidly. 1 1 There 
aren’t many Stephens in this world.” 

Elizabeth thought of the scores of men whom she had 
met, and with whom she had danced. 

“No, there aren’t,” she agreed, wondering how it was 
that she had never thought of this before. 

Sarah looked at her curiously. 

“Are you in love with him? You needn’t mind telling 
me.” 

“Sarah—you do—ask awful questions!” Elizabeth said. 
“I—don’t think I know. I like him ever so much—as a 
friend. ’ ’ 

“Personally,” said Sarah, lighting a fresh cigarette 
from the stump of her old one, “I should imagine he’d 
make rather a jolly husband. Bit temperamental per¬ 
haps, and fairly selfish, but—can’t think of the word I 
want—understanding and—considerate. ’ ’ 

“If he’s selfish—but I’m sure he isn’t, Sarah—how can 
he be considerate ? ’ ’ 

“Selfish in the small everyday things of life, like in¬ 
sisting on going to Scotland when you’d set your heart on 
France, and considerate in the—the bigger things. Have 
you got what I’m driving at?” 

Elizabeth knew from the constrained note in Sarah’s 
voice that she was talking of something in marriage that 
was dark and mysterious. Suddenly she longed for the 
courage to confess ignorance and beg enlightenment. But 
years of training stood in her way, and the implanted be¬ 
lief that knowledge was wrong. 

“Oh, yes!” she said vaguely. 

“Taking it all in all,” Sarah went on reflectively, “he 
might be a lot worse. He wouldn’t do for me, and I 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


65 


shouldn’t have s^aid that he’d do for you either. Still . . . 
S’pose I’ll be congratulating you ere long?” 

4 4 Oh, do be quiet! ’ ’ begged Elizabeth, rosy-cheeked. 

Sarah rose to go. 

4 ‘Well, I think you’re jolly lucky,” she remarked. 

Everybody seemed to think that, although no one was 
so outspoken as Sarah. Lawrence cast up his eyes comi¬ 
cally when Stephen’s impetuous knock sounded on the 
front-door, and murmured, 

44 0h, Elizabeth, Elizabeth! I suppose I shall be de 
trop now?” 

And Miss Arden smiled as at a hidden thought, and gave 
Elizabeth’s hand a little squeeze. 

She was a heroine of romance all at once, and all things 
were forgiven her on the score that she was in love. She 
had never before felt so important, nor taken so prominent 
and conspicuous a place in the opinions of her relatives. 
It was embarrassing sometimes, but always delightful. 

And how much morb important she would be if she 
married Stephen and became mistress of a house of her 
own. Aunt Anne would have to admit then that she was 
really and truly grdwn-up, and no one would be able to say, 
Elizabeth, go and tidy your room, as though she were still 
only a little girl. More than that: once she was married 
she could do anything she liked without reproach, all the 
little things that a girl could not do. She would always 
have a partner at hand, and she would be able to give 
parties of her own without having first to ask permission. 

She saw herself ordering her own groceries, and superin¬ 
tending her own maids. That would be fun. She would 
pour Stephen’s coffee out at breakfast, and say all the 
proper wifely things to him. And he would talk to her 
about his new book; perhaps, even, he would read pas¬ 
sages to her and ask her advice. 


66 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Then the tiny fear sprang up again, How shall I hold 
my own with his mother and .his sister? I am not of his 
world. The fear was hateful, and grew larger as she dwelt 
upon it. She brushed it aside then, thinking, I am not 
marrying them; it will not matter. She gave herself up 
to romantic imaginings, and presently saw herself, married 
to Stephen, a transformed being, no longer shy, no longer 
tongue-tied or ignorant, but the woman she longed to be 
and would never be. 

She began to count the days that had passed since she 
had met Stephen. It was three months, only that, a very 
little time in which to learn to know a man. She wondered 
whether she did know Stephen, and whether any girl knew 
her man before she was irrevocably tied to him. By de¬ 
vious paths she approached Miss Arden with this question, 
saying nervously at last. 

“I suppose—Auntie—marriage is always—rather a— 
plunge in the dark?” 

“Nonsense, child!” Miss Arden said briskly. “What 
on earth do you mean ? ’’ 

“Only that—it’s difficult to know—can one possibly 
know—what a man is really like—before one marries him ? 
I mean—one doesn’t know anyone—properly—till one has 
lived in the same house with them. And—and wouldn’t it 
be—rather dreadful—if after all—it turned out that one 
had made a mistake ? ’ ’ 

“My dear Elizabeth, you’re getting morbid,” Miss Arden 
said flatly. “You’ve been mooning about indoors too 
much, and reading silly books.” 

Elizabeth’s fingers gripped together till the knuckles 
shone white. 

“Aunt Anne—I don’t believe I know—quite what—it 
will mean.” 

Miss Arden knitted faster than ever, and did not look at 
Elizabeth. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


67 


“The best thing you can do, my dear, is to go for a 
brisk walk in the Park,” she said repressively. “You 
don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Elizabeth got up, and stood for a moment looking down 
at Miss Arden. 

“Oughtn’t I to know?” she said quietly. 

“My dear Elizabeth, you can take it from me that 
if you love your husband all these silly fancies of 
yours are groundless. Now run along and put your hat 
on.” 

Elizabeth went slowly out of the room. For the first 
time in her life a great regret took possession of her, and 
a great want. 

“I wish my mother hadn’t died.” 

She had never felt this want before, but now it entered 
deep into her soul and told her that she was lonely and help¬ 
less, lacking a guiding hand. Aunt Anne became sud¬ 
denly useless and apart from her, Lawrence a stranger. 
She felt that she stood alone and that there was no one 
to help or to advise her. Dimly, subconsciously she knew 
that Aunt Anne was no more to her than Lawrence, a 
creature who loved her but did not know her, whom she 
did not know. 

It was in this mood that Stephen found her, alone in 
the drawing-room. 

He came unannounced into the room, quickly as always, 
and shut the dqor behind him with a little, decided click. 

Elizabeth was sitting in a big chair beside the fire, with 
an open book on her knees. She was not reading, but 
looking wistfully down into the fire; her mouth drooped, 
her eyes were laden with shadows. She did not turn be¬ 
cause she thought it was only the parlour-maid who had 
come to set out the table for tea, and for a moment Ste¬ 
phen stood quite still with his hand still on the door-knob, 
watching her. 


68 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Then, wondering, she raised her head, and he saw a tinge 
of colour creep into her cheeks. 

‘ ‘ Stephen! I didn’t know it was you .’ 1 She had sat for 
so long in the half-light, all alone; she was so glad to see 
him. It was as though he had known of her loneliness and 
her unhappiness, and had come because she needed him. 
She rose and went towards him with little, hurried steps, 
holding out her hands. “Pm so glad you’ve come!” she 
said, like a child, and with a tiny catch in her voice. 

His hands came out to meet hers, and clasped them 
warmly together, and kept them so. 

“Elizabeth! Why, you poor little thing, what’s the 
matter?” 

He sounded so sympathetic and anxious, and so tenderly 
possessive that a rush of hot tears sprang to Elizabeth’s 
eyes and glittered on the end of her lashes. She tried to 
smile and to draw her hands away. 

“N-nothing. I—I don’t know. I was lonely.” 

It seemed an infamous thing that she should be lonely, 
or that anyone should, however indirectly, have caused 
those wonderful eyes to brim with tears. Stephen bent his 
head over the hands in his, and kissed them. 

“Dear little Elizabeth!” he said. “What a damned 
shame! ’ ’ 

She was startled; he felt her pulses leap under his fin¬ 
gers, and looked up again, smiling. 

“Don’t be so scared, dear! Come and tell me all about 
it. ’ ’ He knew now that his mind was made up; he would 
not leave this room until he had told her how greatly he 
loved her; her tears and her helplessness had brought mat¬ 
ters between them to a head. 

Elizabeth knew also, blamed herself yet was glad. She 
let him put her back into her chair, and quivering watched 
him sit down on a low stool at her feet. 

“There—there isn’t anything to tell. It was only being 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


alone—and silly. I’m awfully sorry I was such an idiot.’’ 

“You weren’t. You couldn’t be,” he said quietly. 

Oh, but I was! I was just being—morbid. It sounds 
frightfully stupid, because I never knew her, but I—I 
wanted my mother.” 

His eyes darkened, and again he held her hands. 

“Stupid? Did you think that I shouldn’t understand, 
Elizabeth?” 

She was drawing back into her shell; she thought it 
could not have been herself who had made that confidence. 

“I don’t see how you can. I don’t understand it myself. 
Please—please, will you let me go?” 

“No. I want you to let me keep you and take care 
of you all your life, Elizabeth. I love you. Oh, my 
darling, you’re trembling! You’re not afraid of me—you 
couldn’t be! ” He was on his feet now, and had pulled her 
up to stand before him. “Elizabeth, little wild bird! I 
love you so much!” 

She started to struggle; it was the impossibility of 
breaking away from him against his will that made her 
shrink suddenly towards him; that, and the marvellous 
feeling of security his strength gave her. Without know¬ 
ing why, she began to cry, very softly, with her face 
buried in his coat. His arms were tight about her, she 
felt his lips on her hair, and presently his fingers came 
under her chin and forced her head up that he might look 
into her eyes. She bore his look for a moment, and then 
her lashes fell and she felt his lips hard-pressed against 
her mouth. 

He was gentle with her after that, knowing her fright, 
and dried her tears with his own large handkerchief, 
laughing at her a little, but very tenderly. 

“Little babe! Oh, my darling, I’ll be so good to you! 
You shall never be lonely again, never! Elizabeth, dear¬ 
est one, say that you love me! Say it quickly!” 


70 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Her senses were whirling; she was no longer Elizabeth, 
but some strange, mad girl who had been kissed by a man 
who was not her father. She was being swept off her feet 
by a swift tide of unreality and things unknown. 

Stephen gave her a quick hug; she gasped and put her 
hands up against his chest. 

“Say it, you little witch! If you don’t I’ll—” 

She flung her head back to avoid the threatened kiss, 
and pulled away from him as far as his arms would let her. 

“I love you,” she stammered. “Let me go! Please, 
Stephen, please!” 

His arms slackened from about her shoulders, but he 
took her face between his hands and very gently kissed her. 

Nothing he could have done would have made so great an 
appeal to her as his present forbearance. She felt his iron 
self-control and loved him for it. His passion had fright¬ 
ened her, even though it carried all before it, but his con¬ 
sideration now drove out her fear. Shyly she returned 
his kiss, then drooped her head and laid nervous fingers on 
his coat-sleeve. 

He wanted to pick her up, but something warned him 
that he must not. It was in keeping with his ideal of her 
that she should be timid; he must be careful, and not for¬ 
get her frailty. So he drew her down to sit beside him 
on the sofa and began to play with her little hand. 

“When will your father be home, sweetheart? I just 
can’t wait.” 

“I don’t know—the usual time— Oh, Stephen, are you 
sure?” 

“My darling! Am I sure! Elizabeth, you won’t make 
me wait too long?” 

“Would you—if I wanted to?” she asked, peeping up 
at him. “Would you, Stephen?” 

His fingers crushed hers against his lips. 

“I—yes, if you wished. But don’t, Elizabeth, don’t!” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


71 


It was marvellous to think that anyone so big and master¬ 
ful would give way to her so humbly. She pulled her 
hand from his and showed him her whitened fingers. 

‘ 1 Look! How cruel, Stephen! ’ ’ 

He was all contrition at once; she saw herself precious in 
his eyes, and tilted her head, a faint smile of new-born 
confidence on her lips. 

Then, after what seemed a very little while, Lawrence’s 
key grated in the front door lock, and Stephen sprang 

up. 

“I never knew that I could be in such a fever of anx¬ 
iety!” he said. “Wait here, my darling, won’t you?” 

“Yes,” she answered, and raised her hand to brush a 
piece of fluff from his coat. 

His eyes laughed, and again he caught her in his arms. 

“Oh, you darling!” he said, and went striding out to 
meet Lawrence. 


( 


CHAPTER EIGHT 

It was not very long before Miss Arden came in. She 
found Elizabeth wrapped in dreams, slowly regaining her 
balance. 

“Well, well, nothing to do?” she exclaimed. “Haven’t 
you any sewing, my dear?” 

Her voice interrupted the pleasant reverie and irritated 
Elizabeth. She looked up, and that tiny, triumphant smile 
again curved her lips. 

“Stephen is here,” she said. 

Miss Arden glanced round the room as though he were 
hidden somewhere in it. 

“Where?” she asked. “His car is not outside.” 

11 1 suppose he took a taxi, ’ ’ Elizabeth answered. “ He’s 
with Father.” 

Miss Arden jumped and stared very hard at Elizabeth. 

“My dear?” 

“We’re—we’re going to be married,” Elizabeth said 
simply. 

Miss Arden dropped her furs and her bag and almost 
fell upon her niece. 

“Oh, my darling! my dearest child!” she cried. “What 
—What can I say ? ’ ’ She kissed Elizabeth, and fondled her 
hair. Her eyes were wet. “I don’t know how I shall bear 
it, or what I shall do without you! But I’m very, very 
glad, for your sake. If I have to give you up to any man 
I’d sooner it was to Stephen. Oh, darling, are you very 
happy?” 

“I think I am,” Elizabeth said conscientiously. 

‘ 1 Think! Elizabeth, surely, surely—” 

“No, of course I’m happy. It’s only that it was so 
72 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


73 


sudden—I don’t quite know where I am or what’s hap¬ 
pening.” 

“My dear, I understand! I’m not a bit surprised, of 
course, at your news. Onlookers see most of the game, 
don’t they, love? Oh dear, and you’re so young! I had 
hoped— What are we going to do without you ? Stephen 
Ramsay too, of all people! I don’t fancy that your father 
will make any objection. He’s such a charming young 
man, as I told his mother, and so well-connected. Darling, 
really I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels! 
If only your poor dear mother were alive, how proud she 
would be! She’d understand what I’m feeling, too. It 
seems only yesterday that you were playing with your 
doll.” 

Then Lawrence came bustling in with Stephen behind 
him, and, pouncing upon his daughter, kissed her, twice. 

“Well, well, well! So my little girl wants to be mar¬ 
ried, does she? And a very obstinate, pushing husband 
you’ll have, my dear! I have been forced—yes, forced 
at the sword’s point so to speak—to give my consent to 
an early marriage. Many, many congratulations, Eliza¬ 
beth, but more to Stephen. You little know what a treas¬ 
ure you are going to possess, young man.” 

“I do know, sir, none better,” Stephen said promptly. 

Lawrence heaved a great sigh. 

“Not as I, her father, know. It’s going to be a great gap 
in our lives, eh, Anne?” 

“I can’t bear to think of it,” she answered. “But I 
do congratulate you, both. And I do hope you aren’t go¬ 
ing to force Elizabeth into too early a marriage, Stephen.” 

“I couldn’t force her into anything, Miss Arden,” 
he replied, smiling. “But I’m impatient. Can you 
wonder?” 

“No, oh no, but there’s so much to be thought of, and 
so much to be done.” 


74 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Long engagements,” said Lawrence unexpectedly, “are 
a mistake. We’ll discuss all that at some future date. 
Meanwhile, Stephen tells me he has promised to be at his 
mother’s flat by half-past six.” 

“A dinner-party,” Stephen explained, grimacing. ‘ If 
it wasn’t the mater’s party—” 

“Oh, but of course you must go!” Elizabeth said 
quickly. She was anxious to put an end to this trying 
scene, and stepped forward to his side. “I’ll come and 
see you off.” 

Outside, in the hall, he put his arms about her and 
kissed her eyelids. 

“If you only knew how often I’ve longed to do that!” 
he murmured. “Your father was a brick, Elizabeth. 
Don’t let them persuade you into putting off the wedding! 
Let it be soon, sweetheart, I can’t wait!” 

“Not too soon!” she begged. “You don’t understand, 
Stephen, I must have time. I—I’ve got to get used to the 
feel of being engaged first.” 

“Poor little precious, you shan’t be rushed and badg¬ 
ered ! Elizabeth, until I can get you a real, proper ring, 
will you wear this?” He drew the signet ring from his 
little finger. 

“I’d like to,” she said, and gave him her hand. 


Cynthia was with his mother, and Anthony. As Stephen 
came impetuously into the drawing-room, Anthony, pen in 
hand, was saying, 

“But, look here, mater, you must remember where that 
missing twenty pounds went to! ” 

“I don’t, a bit,” Mrs. Ramsay said placidly, then caught 
sight of her son. “Stephen, Anthony’s bullying me.” 

Stephen bent to kiss the top of her head. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


75 


“What a shame ! And what have yon been doing?” 

“He says I must account for a horrible twenty pounds. 
Put it down as incidental expenses, Anthony.” 

“Can’t. Everything is incidental expenses! And 
really, mater, this isn’t the way to keep an account-book.” 

“Isn’t it, darling? You show me, then.” 

Anthony grinned, and shut the book. 

“Showed you last week, my dear. Not a bit of good.” 

“Don’t worry her,” Stephen said. “She likes to be in 
a muddle. I’ll go through with her later. She probably 
bought a Chippendale chair with that twenty pounds.” 

Mrs. Ramsay sat up. 

“No, not a chair, a mirror. Stephen, you’re perfectly 
wonderful! I should never have remembered! How did 
you do it?” 

“Long association with you helped, mater. I’ve news 
for you.” 

i ‘ How nice! Good news ? ’ ’ 

Stephen went to the fireplace and stood with his back to 
it. Mrs. Ramsay saw that his chin was tilted a little as 
though for battle. 

‘ 4 Very good news. I am engaged to be married to Eliza¬ 
beth Arden.” 

Heavily weighted, his words fell into a strained silence. 
Then Cynthia moved, jerking her head. 

“Oh, damnation!” she said forcibly. 

“Thanks,” said Stephen. “Anything else?” 

“Go to the devil your own silly way!” 

Stephen’s hands went into his pockets, tight clenched. 
There was blazing light at the back of his eyes, and the 
corners of his mouth twitched slightly. 

“Yes? What exactly do you mean by that?” 

“What I say!” 

Anthony heaved himself out of his chair. 

“No, she doesn’t. Gently, Cynthia, now! Congratula 


76 INSTEAD OF THE THORN 

tions, old man, an’ all that sort of thing. Nice little girl, 
Elizabeth.’’ 

Mrs. Ramsay came to Stephen, and put her hands up to 
hold the lapels of his coat. 

‘‘ Please don’t frown at me, Stephen dear! If you’re 
very happy, I am too. Didn’t I say I should be? Some¬ 
body bring me a footstool, I can’t reach him, and I want 
to kiss him. ’ ’ 

‘‘You’re a dear, mater,” Stephen said, and hugged her. 
“You won’t be able to help loving Elizabeth when you 
know her better.” 

“Of course I shan’t. Can I congratulate her, or does 
that look as though I’m too proud of you?” 

Cynthia rose and walked out of the room. 

“Don’t be huffy, old man!” Anthony begged. “You 
know what she is. She doesn’t mean anything.” 

“I do indeed know what she is,” said Stephen grimly. 
“Of all the shrewish—” 

Anthony put his pipe down on the mantelpiece. 

“That’ll do, Stephen,” he drawled. 

‘ ‘ I daresay it suits you to shut your eyes to her abomina¬ 
ble behaviour!” Stephen sneered. 

“If you’ve got anything more to say, you can come out¬ 
side and say it,’’ Anthony warned him softly. “I’m will¬ 
ing to admit that Cynthia shouldn’t have said what she 
did, but if you think I’m going to let you—” 

“I’ll say what I like about Cynthia! You seem to for¬ 
get that I’ve got the rotten bad luck to be her brother!” 

“And you—” Anthony planted himself firmly before 
Stephen, “seem to forget that I have the extraordinary 
good luck to be her husband.” 

“Very extraordinary!” Stephen snapped. 

“I think it’s time I began to cry,” Mrs. Ramsay said 
plaintively. “Don’t quarrel, you dear silly creatures. 
Anthony, don’t pay any attention to Stephen. Goodness 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


77 


me, you ought to know the Ramsay temper by now!” 

Anthony picked up his pipe. 

** Pity it isn’t kept under control,” he remarked, very 
levelly. 

“Damn it all,” Stephen said fiercely, “anyone would 
think I started the row!” 

“Never mind who started it!” begged Mrs. Ramsay. 
“And be nice to Cynthia, Stephen, just to please me. You 
can be so awfully nice if you try. ’ ’ 

“Be nice to her! What am I expected to do? Apolo¬ 
gise for marrying a girl whom she doesn’t happen to 
like?” 

Mrs. Ramsay stroked his coat sleeve. 

“It’s only because she’s so proud of you, dearest, and 
because she’d set her heart on your marrying Nina. She’s 
sorry by now that she was so tactless.” 

Stephen was slightly mollified, but still he scowled. 

“Jolly way to- have the news of one’s engagement re¬ 
ceived, ’ ’ he said. 

“Horrid, darling, but I’m glad that you’re going to be 
happy, and so is Anthony.” 

The door opened; Cynthia came back into the room with 
her hat and gloves on. Stephen went forward. 

“Going to congratulate me, Cynny?” 

“I don’t suppose it matters to you what I say,” she 
answered bitterly. 

44 Cynthia, do behave properly!’’ sighed her mother. ‘‘I 
won’t have you all quarrelling round me. And Stephen’s 
going to kill Anthony—or Anthony’s going to kill Stephen, 
I’m not sure which—and it’ll be most unpleasant. All 
over you too, and it isn’t anything to do with you really. 

“You needn’t bother to fight over me,” Cynthia said. 
She hesitated, and then held out her hand. “Sorry, Ste¬ 
phen. I’ll write to Elizabeth to-night.” 

“Thanks, old girl.” 


78 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Very handsome,” commented Anthony. “I’d better 
take her home before she spoils it. Cheerio, mater; good 
luck, Stephen. Come on, my lady.” 

Cynthia released Stephen’s hand. 

“Perhaps I’d better,” she admitted. “Time you and 
Stephen dressed for your party, mater.” 

So Stephen and his mother were left alone, and for a 
long time stood with linked arms before the fire. At last 
Mrs. Ramsay spoke. 

“Soon, Stephen?” 

“I hope so, mater.” 

Mrs. Ramsay stifled a tiny sigh, and looked up, smiling. 

“I’ll give Elizabeth the pearls as a wedding-present, 
shall I?” 

He pressed her elbow slightly. 

“No, dear. You won’t.” 

“I’d like to, Stephen. Truly.” 

“Elizabeth wouldn’t like you to. Nor should I. But 
you’re a very nice little mater to think of it.” 

“Aren’t I?” she nodded, pleased. 


CHAPTER NINE 


Following close upon a letter from Mrs. Ramsay, 
Stephen came to the Boltons’ next morning and caught 
Elizabeth up into his arms. 

“Oh . . . don’t!” she cried, in agitation. 

He laughed at her, and held her for yet another moment; 
then he set her gently on her feet, and put a little leather 
case into her hand. 

‘‘Darling, there’s your first fetter,’’ he said gaily. “Tell 
me if you like it! I’ve had at least twelve jewellers’ 
shops upside down this morning, looking for a ring that 
would express you.” 

Elizabeth opened the case, and of habit, said, How 
lovely! She had dreamed of sapphires, deep twinkling 
gems, and Stephen brought her a cluster of pearls set in a 
diamond circle. 

“It looked so exactly like you, Elizabeth. But if you 
don’t care about it I’ll change it. I ought to have asked 
you your favourite stone, oughtn’t I?” 

“Of course I like it. Thank you very much, Stephen. 
It’s perfectly beautiful. Only it means tears. Had you 
forgotten?” 

He drew his signet-ring from her finger and slipped his 
gift on in its place. 

“ ’Fraid it’s too big. Sweetheart, you don’t really care 
about that silly old superstition, do you?” 

She shook her head, smiling. 

“No. I said it to tease you. It is too big, Stephen— 
just a bit.” 

“Sickening. What can I measure your dear little finger 


80 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


She hunted in Miss Arden’s work-bag for tape and care¬ 
fully he tied a knot about her finger. 

“ Stephen, Mrs. Ram—your mother—has written an 
awfully nice letter to me. I’m going to tea with her this 
afternoon.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, splendid! ” he said. ‘ ‘ I told her last night. You ’ll 
love her, Elizabeth.” 

“I’m feeling—dreadfully shy—about going to see her,” 
she confessed. She laid a hand upon his coat-sleeve, and 
glanced up at him in the bewitching, childlike way she 
had. 

His arm went round her. 

“My darling, you couldn’t be shy of the mater! She’s 
far more likely to be shy of you, little babe.” 

“Is she?” Elizabeth looked surprised. “But why? 
Won’t she like me as a—as a daughter-in-law?” 

“Elizabeth! How dare you? She’ll love you—just as 
I do. No, not as I do at all. Darling, I adore your hair, 
it smells of all the flowers in the world, but I’d like to 
see your face.” 

She turned it upwards in blushing obedience. She saw 
his eyes grow dark and grave. 

“Elizabeth—” He stopped and quite gently kissed her. 

‘ ‘ There’s so much I want to say, and I can’t say it without 
sounding like a third-rate novel. I’d like to say all the 
things that I thought I never should say. I want to tell 
you that your eyes are like pansies, all velvety and soft, 
but I know quite well from the solemn look on your face 
that you’ll think I’m just phrase-making.” 

She had not thought it; his whimsicality and the quick 
predominance of his humour puzzled her; she had not 
imagined that her lover would be like this, and laugh even 
when he said that she was beautiful. The tiny catch in his 
voice told her that although he joked, his feeling for her 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


81 


was serious, more serious perhaps than he dared to show? 
her. And yet his joking was a jarring note to her. Love- 
making was something that was holy and solemn, like 
going to church; he should not have laughed. After yes¬ 
terday everything seemed a little flat. She had expected 
to feel a heroine’s exultation when Stephen slipped the 
ring on to her finger, but the ring was too big, and she had 
wanted sapphires. 

He left her when Miss Arden came in, and she spent the 
morning wondering what Mrs. Ramsay would say to her, 
and what she would say to Mrs. Ramsay. 

But Mrs. Ramsay made everything easy. When Eliza¬ 
beth entered her drawing-room she came forward quickly 
and held out both her hands. 

“ Elizabeth, can I congratulate you, or does that sound 
as though I were too proud of my son?” 

Then Elizabeth laughed, and kissed her, and some of the 
tension was gone. 

“It was so nice of you to ask me to come to-day,” Eliza¬ 
beth stammered. 

“My dear, of course I wanted to see you at once. We 
hardly know one another, do we? Still, I always believe 
what Stephen tells me because he’s usually right, and he 
says that I shall love you. Oh, do sit down!” 

“Stephen says that I shall love you too,” Elizabeth 
smiled. 

4 ‘ Please do! I’m a horribly spoiled person, and I can’t bear 
it if people don’t like me. By the way, I must introduce 
you to Thomas. Such a darling. Thomas, where are you ? ” 

Thomas, who was a bull terrier, came stiffly from behind 
the sofa, and snuffed enquiringly at Elizabeth’s ankles. 
She patted him and fondled his ears, and he put his fore¬ 
paws on her knee. 

“What a blessing!” sighed Mrs. Ramsay. “It’s most 


82 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


awkward when Thomas won’t be polite to my friends. 
I’m glad he likes you. Have you got a dog?” 

“No, but I’ve always wanted one,” Elizabeth answered. 
“My aunt doesn’t care for them. What a beautiful head 
Thomas has.” 

“Hasn’t he? You know, he rules my life, which is some¬ 
times most tiresome. That’s the worst of a dog—yes, and 
the best too—if you’re really and truly fond of them you 
can’t stir without them, and then where are you?” She 
began to pour out the tea. “I was at Seaford. At least, 
that’s where Thomas landed me. Such an awful place; 
you can’t wear a hat there without being conspicuous.” 

“But why did Thomas land you at Seaford?” Eliza¬ 
beth asked, considerably mystified. 

“Oh, didn’t I explain?” Mrs. Ramsay handed her a 
plate and made a vague gesture of invitation towards 
the cake-stand. 4 ‘ The only hotel that would receive Thomas 
was one at Seaford. No, I believe there was one at East¬ 
bourne, but I couldn’t possibly go there, could I? 
You can’t go without a hat there, without being conspicu¬ 
ous. No medium. So I went to Seaford, and Thomas 
loved it. Do have some toast.” 

Elizabeth took the toast, and as there didn’t seem to 
be anything to say she was silent. Mrs. Ramsay gave 
Thomas a lump of sugar, remarking that it was exceed¬ 
ingly bad for him, and leaned back in her chair, smiling 
at Elizabeth. 

“Poor child, you little know what a mad family you’re 
marrying into. Someone ought to have warned you. Did 
Stephen ? ’ ’ 

“No,” said Elizabeth, laughing a little. 

“What a shame. Still, you’ve met most of us, haven’t 
you? Even Anthony, and he isn’t mad at all. Quite the 
reverse, poor old thing. Then there’s the Outer Circle: 
aunts, you know, and one uncle. Quite a darling, and 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


83 


never will go to bed before three in the morning. I be¬ 
lieve there are some cousins, only I’ve forgotten for the 
moment which they are. Relations are rather trying, 
aren’t they? especially cousins. So elusive. You meet 
them once in a blue moon and feel you ought to love them 
whereas really you hope to goodness you’ll never see them 
again. Are you cursed with them?” 

“No, I’ve no relations except my father and my aunt. 
My mother was an only child, you see. Oh—as a matter 
of fact I think I have got some cousins somewhere. Second 
ones, or once-removed. I don’t quite know, but I’ve never 
seen them.” 

“There you are!” Mrs. Ramsay nodded. “One day 
they’ll turn up, and you’ll think, What awful people! 
Backwoodsmen. They always are.” 

“Back what?” Elizabeth asked, much amused. 

‘ ‘ Backwoodsmen. Isn’t that right ? Country-bumpkins, 
who come on a visit to town and buy clothes at Sel¬ 
fridge ’s.” 

“Oh, I see! Yes, I believe mine are like that. They 
live in the Isle of Wight.” 

“I didn’t know anybody did,” Mrs. Ramsay said inno¬ 
cently. “I always thought the Isle of Wight was just a 
place everyone went to in the summer. That’s why I 
never did. Try some of that cake. I bought it myself be¬ 
cause it looked like the Albert Memorial.” 

“Oh, that eyesore!” Elizabeth cried. 

“My dear, it’s wonderful. I go and stare at it periodi¬ 
cally and gasp.” 

“But don’t you think it’s ugly ?” Elizabeth asked. 

“Marvellously. It’s just as though an ancient Greek 
did all the stone work at the base and Joseph Lyons came 
and put the chocolate wedding-cake on top. I wonder 
whether he did? I must ask Stephen. Yes, and that’s 
brought us back to Stephen. The Albert Memorial and 


84 


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Stephen. How dreadful! When is he going to take you 
down to Queen’s Halt?” 

“He hasn’t said anything about it—yet. You see—it 
was only yesterday that he—that we—” 

“So it was! Such an attractive house, Elizabeth—in the 
summer. Ingle nooks and beamed ceilings. Yes, and a 
warming-pan. Rather draughty in winter—not the 
warming-pan, but the house. Stephen’s grandfather 
pushed I don’t know how much Louis Quinze furniture 
into it, and it simply shrieked. However, we’ve got rid of 
it all now, so you needn’t be alarmed.” Her hands began 
to wander over the tea-tray again, and she looked worried. 
“I’m sure I haven’t said all the things I ought to say. 
I’ve had no experience, you see, and it’s difficult. 
Anthony simply said, Please can I marry Cynthia? and I 
answered, Yes, if you take care of her. I can’t very well 
tell you to take care of Stephen, can I?” 

“I—I will, though,” Elizabeth said. 

“Yes, I think perhaps you will. The best thing I can 
say is, Be as happy as you can and—and never give him 
kippers for breakfast. He hates them.” 

Elizabeth took this quite seriously, and made a mental 
note of it. 

“Before we—before we’re married, will you please tell 
me all those sort of things that I ought to know?” she 
asked diffidently. 

“My dear, I don’t know them myself,” Mrs. Ramsay 
said. “I only remember about the kippers because Ste¬ 
phen once threw one out of the window. By the tail. 
It looked so pathetic, and the garden was infested by cats 
for days afterwards.” 

“Threw it out of the window?” Elizabeth gasped. 
“Stephen?” 

“Dear me, yes. Quite a dreadful exhibition, wasn’t 
it? I remember old Mrs. Taunton was staying with us at 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


85 


the time and she was quite surprised. Rather shocked 
too, and really one can’t wonder at it. Still, it did look 
funny.” 

“But what an extraordinary thing to do,” Elizabeth 
said slowly. 

“Most. So inconsiderate too, because I couldn’t bear to 
think of a kipper lying in the garden, and we all had to 
go out and look for it after breakfast. Thomas found it, 
didn’t you, my pet?” 

It was funny, as recounted by Mrs. Ramsay, and Eliza¬ 
beth laughed, but privately she wondered what she would 
think if ever Stephen did such a thing in her presence. 
Something of this was reflected in her face, for, after a 
pause, Mrs. Ramsay said, 

“You mustn’t think that throwing kippers out of the 
window is one of Stephen’s vices, my dear. In fact, I’ve 
never known him do it before or since. On that particu¬ 
lar occasion something had gone wrong with his novel, 
and he vented his wrath on the kipper. Careless of me 
to have offered him one.” 

*‘1 shall take good care never to have kippers, ’ ’ Elizabeth 
remarked. “But seriously, Mrs. Ramsay, will you tell me 
all his likes and dislikes, and—and—that sort of thing?” 

“I would if I could,” Mrs. Ramsay assured her, with a 
disarming smile. “Only I can’t, because I don’t remem¬ 
ber. If I think of anything I’ll write it down on a piece 
of paper and lose it. And I can’t tell you anything about 
housekeeping, because I’m a very bad housekeeper. I 
never know what day the washing comes home, or whether 
I’ve paid the books or not. You won’t have to worry 
about that unless you want to, because Nana housekeeps 
at Queen’s Halt. Nana is Stephen’s old nurse; such a 
treasure. She knows everything. ” 

“I expect she’ll teach me then,” Elizabeth said slowly. 
“Is she—very formidable?” 


86 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“No, I don’t think so. She’s rather fussy about not 
bringing mud into the house, and I don’t think she ap¬ 
proves of Stephen’s books, but she’s really quite harmless. 
She’ll like you, I expect. By the way, when are you go¬ 
ing to get married, or don’t you know?” 

“Oh, I—we—haven’t thought about that yet!” Elizabeth 
said, shrinking. “There’s—there’s heaps of time.” 

“I shouldn’t hurry it too much,” Mrs. Ramsay said. 
“Stephen will want to carry you off at once, but—oh, I’d 
wait a little while! ’ ’ 

Elizabeth looked at her, and again the thought came to 
her that Mrs. Ramsay did not want Stephen to marry her. 
She began to fumble with the bead-bag she carried. 

“Why, Mrs. Ramsay?” she asked hesitantly. 

“Because you don’t know one another very well yet, my 
dear. Do I sound as though I were being nasty? I’m 
not a bit really. Only Stephen’s the queerest creature on 
God’s earth, and it would be better for you if you knew 
what sort of moods he was likely to have, before you mar¬ 
ried him.” 

“Moods ...” Elizabeth repeated. “Is he—moody?” 

“My child, he calls it * artistic temperament.’ So much 
nicer. Awfully interesting, but sometimes rather trying. 
His father had it too.” Then Mrs. Ramsay realised that 
she was saying things to separate Stephen from Elizabeth, 
and she managed to stop herself, and to smile. “But he’s 
always charming, and—if you go about it the right way— 
easv to manage. How dreadful of us to talk about him 
like this! He wanted to come to tea to-day, and I wouldn’t 
let him. I preferred to have my future daughter to my¬ 
self.” 

“I’m glad you did,” Elizabeth said. “It’s easier^in a 
way—to get to know one another. I was—awfully pleased 
to be able to come.” 

“Rather an ordeal,” Mrs. Ramsay commented. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


87 


“Oh, no!” Elizabeth assured her. “Not a bit!” 

Mrs. Ramsay felt glad that Cynthia was not there. 
Cynthia would have been triumphant; perhaps she would 
even have sneered. 

“I want you to come and see me just whenever you 
feel like it, ’ ’ Mrs. Ramsay said. * 1 Don’t bother to ring up; 
come.’ ’ 

“Thank you—it’s very kind of you,” Elizabeth stam¬ 
mered. 

“It isn’t a bit. I want to get to know you, and I want 
you to know me. So much more satisfactory for both of 
us. So drop in on me, won’t you? I can’t bear cere¬ 
mony.” 

“I should love to,” Elizabeth said; but Mrs. Ramsay 
knew that she would wait to be invited. 


CHAPTER TEN 


Elizabeth wanted to “show off” her engagement to Mr. 
Hengist. It was the way Mr. Hengist spoke and looked, 
the little ironical things he said that made her want to do 
this. Mr. Hengist thought her stupid; he laughed at her, 
and said, For God’s sake be natural! Now surely he 
would recognise that she was not stupid: how could she be 
when Stephen Ramsay had chosen her for his wife? She 
had been proud to introduce Stephen to Mr. Hengist as a 
friend; she was immeasurably proud to speak of him as 
“my fiance.” The mantle of his brilliancy seemed in 
some mysterious way to have fallen about her shoulders; 
she held her head higher; in imagination she was Mrs. 
Stephen Ramsay “whom you must know, my dear!” 

Yet, in the end, it was disappointing, and Mr. Hengist 
was unresponding and unimpressed. It was queer how 
Elizabeth cared for his opinion, and liked him even when 
he annoyed her most. 

He came one evening to smoke a pipe with Lawrence, and 
because Lawrence was out, he went into the drawing-room, 
where Elizabeth sat with Miss Arden. 

“Aha!” Miss Arden cried archly, “you’ve come to con¬ 
gratulate our little Elizabeth!” 

Mr. Hengist shook hands with them both in his quiet 
way, and said, after the tiniest pause, 

“Yes. I suppose so. I hope you’ll be very happy, 
Elizabeth.” 

“Well, I must say that’s not very enthusiastic!” Miss 
Arden said, still arch, but with a touch of acidity in her 
voice. 


88 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


89 


4 ‘Isn’t it? I hardly know Ramsay. If you and Law¬ 
rence are pleased—” 

“Pleased! We’re delighted—for Elizabeth’s sake.” 

* ‘ Then it seems to be most satisfactory, ’ ’ he said calmly. 

Elizabeth thought how grudgingly he had spoken, how 
detached was his manner. Pique made her cheeks rosy 
and her eyes bright, and when Miss Arden went to fetch 
her knitting, she looked challengingly at Mr. Hengist, and 
said, 

“Why did you congratulate me in such a funny way, 
Mr. Hengist? Aren’t you glad?” 

“Very, if you are.” 

“Of course I am! I shouldn’t be engaged if I—if I 
didn’t love Stephen.” 

“Wouldn’t you?” Mr. Hengist looked at her in that 
quizzical way he had, just as though he didn’t believe her. 

Elizabeth was tired with a long day’s shopping, and 
pettish. 

“I wish you’d say what you really think!” she said 
rather snappishly, like Miss Arden. 

Mr. Hengist started to knock his pipe out against the 
fender; the measured, staccato sound irritated her, and she 
jerked her head crossly. 

“My dear Elizabeth,” Mr. Hengist said slowly, “don’t 
you realize that that is the last thing in the world you 
want?” 

She was startled, and her eyelids flew wide. 

“I don’t know what you mean!” 

“You ask me to say what I really think. That would be 
the truth, Elizabeth—the thing you’ve run away from all 
your life.” 

“I haven’t!” she said hotly. “It’s only what you 
think! I—I do want you to tell me your real opinion!” 

“Very well,” he answered. He shifted his shoulders 
into the chair, as though he were digging himself in. “I 


90 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


think that you’re making a mistake—and I’m sorry.” 

Elizabeth gripped the arms of her chair, staring at him. 

“How—how can you say such a horrible thing? I— 
making a mistake ? I think it’s most unkind of you! And 
how can you know?” 

“I didn’t think you’d care for my honest opinion, did 
I?” he replied, unruffled. “But you asked for it, and I’m 
going to give it. No one has ever made you look into your¬ 
self. Ever done it? Of course you haven’t. You cheat, 
Elizabeth.” 

“I don’t! Oh, I don’t!” 

“You cheat yourself, which is far worse than cheating 
other people. It isn’t all your fault, but it’s time you 
stopped. I know you think you’re in love with Ramsay— 
perhaps you are. I don’t think so. Yes, that’s a pretty 
beastly thing to say, isn’t it? It’s necessary though. You 
believe in the thing you either want to believe in, or that 
your—other people—expect you to believe in. You’ve read 
sickly trash, and you’re susceptible to glamour. There’s 
glamour about Ramsay; it’s caught you. Ask yourself, 
child, whether you would still be in love with him if jhe 
were on the Stock Exchange.” 

“Yes!” 

‘ ‘ Then you ’re in love, and I withdraw all I have said. ’ ’ 

“You don’t believe me?” 

“No, I don’t. You haven’t learned the meaning of 
love yet, but your mind has become a kind of sentimental 
sponge which makes it receptive to a fancied emotion. Do 
you see what I mean?” 

“I’d rather not see,” Elizabeth said frigidly. 

“I know that. It’s your attitude towards everything 
that’s unpleasant. But I warn you, Elizabeth—and I 
speak as one who’s very fond of you—that sooner or later 
you’ll have to face unpleasantness. Your rosy, gossamer 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


91 


little world’ll be torn up, and it’ll be a shock. I don’t 
want to see you hurt in that way. Facts have a way of 
forcing themselves upon you; you’d better face ’em now, 
and start being honest. And, Elizabeth, I hate to see you 
cheating yourself. It’s rotten, and it’s cowardly.” 

Her underlip trembled; he wondered whether she were 
about to cry. 

‘‘I don’t see what—all this—has got to do with—my 
engagement!” 

‘ 1 Everything. With all his faults, Ramsay’s honest— 
as honest as a man can be. A bit blind, perhaps, but 
sincere. Doesn’t it rather stand to reason that you’ll be 
in danger of clashing?” 

* ‘ Stephen knows me better than you do! ” 

He smiled in boundless wisdom. 

“He will, child, certainly. He’s in love with you now, 
and being an idealist—almost a romantic, I think—he 
doesn’t see any faults in you. When a man’s deeply in 
love, he doesn’t.” 

“I think you’re being—unkind and—and cruel, Mr. 
Hengist.” 

“I expect you do, and I’m sorry. If I didn’t love you 
I shouldn’t bother to upset you. I want you to consider 
well before you plunge into marriage with Ramsay. If 
you’re really in love with him incompatibility of tempera¬ 
ment and ideals won’t matter. If you’re not—well, your 
chance of happiness is slender.” 

Elizabeth tried to capture dignity, but her voice quiv¬ 
ered. 

4 ‘It—seems to me, Mr. Hengist, that you think—Stephen 
has made a mistake.” 

“I do,” he said. ‘ 4 He’s not your sort. You’re poles 
apart. I believe in affinities, you know. If you marry 
him you’ll very soon see the need for adaptation, and as 


92 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


he’s a man it’s you who’ll have to adapt yourself. Even 
then—oh, Elizabeth, you’re only a kid, and I’m afraid 
you’re going to make a mess of things!” 

“I think—it’s a matter for me to decide.” 

“Certainly it is.” 

“What is more, my father entirely approves.” 

Mr. Hengist started to say, Your father be damned, and 
recovered himself in time. 

“Auntie too,” Elizabeth said gently. 

“Oh, lord!” groaned Mr. Hengist. 

To Lawrence he said more, forcibly, but Lawrence put 
his finger-tips together and was blandly complacent. You 
could make no impression on him; he wanted to have 
Stephen, Ramsay as a son : in-law. 

And all the time Stephen was kicking against the barriers 
that were attendant upon engagement. Hotly he desired 
Elizabeth, and chafed against restraint. She was his, but 
not his. He could take her out in his car, to dances, to 
the theatre; he could sit alone with her at her home but all 
the time he was conscious of the convenances hedging them 
round and witholding Elizabeth. 

He would not take her to see Queen’s Halt. Tenta¬ 
tively she suggested it, and he laughed, and the blood stole 
up to the roots of his hair as he confessed his whimsical 
fancy. 

“I don’t want to take you there until you’re my wife, 
sweetheart. I can’t explain why not, and I suppose it 
sounds ridiculous, but I—well, I won’t. I’m getting in¬ 
curably sentimental. All your fault, you adorable little 
angel. Soon I shall be seized with a longing to lift you 
over the threshold. Wouldn ’t it be awful ? ’ ’ 

“I think it would be rather attractive,” she said, re¬ 
flecting. 

“All right, I’ll do it, and brave the sniggers of the 
cook and the housemaid. It’s a bet.” 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


93 


“Would they snigger? It wouldn’t be very nice, then.” 

“Sure to. Probably think me mad. Oh, no, they’d 
say, Ah, well, he’s a writer, with an indulgent smile. You 
can do anything if you’re a writer, darling. Awfully 
useful. People rather expect you to be eccentric. Pro¬ 
vided you wrote or painted they’d say, How delightfully 
Bohemian, if you turned up at a dinner-party in a tweed 
coat.” 

‘ * Or threw kippers out of the window, ’ ’ Elizabeth added, 
remembering. 

His eyes narrowed in a puzzled way peculiar to him. 

“What’s the joke?” 

“Mrs. Ramsay—I mean, mater—said you did that once.” 

“Did I? Oh, yes, I know! How base of mater! If I 
promise never to do it again can our engagement stand?” 

“Stephen, you silly!” 

“Elizabeth, you pet! When will you marry me?” 

It always came back to that. He argued until her ex¬ 
cuses seemed foolish; her defences were weakening; she 
thought how masterful he was. 

“My things aren’t nearly ready yet.” 

“Damn your things, darling.” 

“I must get my trousseau together, Stephen. You know 
I must. You don’t want a dowdy wife, do you?” 

“Don’t care a bit as long as I get her. You don’t sup¬ 
pose I’m marrying your clothes, *o you?” 

“Yes, but I can’t, Stephen. Not yet. Please wait just 
a little while. We’ve been engaged such a short time.” 

That was how it ended, always. Then at last one day he 
pleaded so adroitly and with such winning fervour that 
she named her date, promising to marry him in June, if 
her father consented. It would make their engagement of 
three months’ duration; he must admit that it was short. 

He began to plan their honeymoon; she listened breath¬ 
lessly while he spoke of Paris and Brittany, or perhaps 


94 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Florence, and Rome and Sicily. She was dazzled and 
eager. Life was beautiful. 

Lawrence put forward no objections; it was Miss Arden 
who begged Elizabeth to wait. Lawrence said that he 
should like to see his little girl married among the 
roses, and was she to be married from a hotel or from 
home? 

That diverted Miss Arden’s thoughts a little; the battle 
raged over Elizabeth, and in the end Lawrence won. She 
was to be married from a hotel, with a champagne break¬ 
fast. It was all very exciting and queer, and there was 
so much to be done that Elizabeth’s thoughts rarely trav¬ 
elled further than to the wedding itself. “Afterwards” 
was in the misty future; now there was her dress to be 
made, and her going-away frock to be chosen. 

And as the time drew nearer she began to wish that it 
were over, and looked forward to the actual date as a 
day when all the wearisome preparations should be over 
and she might pause to draw breath. 

Stephen grumbled at her constant preoccupation, but he 
submitted because he knew that soon, very soon, it would 
all be over, and he would be able to carry her off, away 
from a fussy aunt and trite father, and away from excited 
and admiring girl-friends. 

It seemed to him that Elizabeth had no time to give him 
now; she was busy trying on clothes or acknowledging 
presents. She was looking tired, too, and there was no 
sense of repose in her home. Miss Arden saw to it that 
everyone, including herself, was in a continual state of 
bustle. She enjoyed it, and spent the day running up and 
downstairs, forgetting first this and then that, and growing 
steadily wearier and, therefore, more irritable. 

When Stephen came he bore Elizabeth off in his car, 
motoring her out to lunch at some quiet, lovely spot, 
waiting on her with tender, solicitous care, treating her, 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


95 


she thought, as though she were made of porcelain. It 
was so pleasant that she found herself counting the days 
to her wedding, almost longing to get away from home and 
her strenuous aunt. 

Her bridesmaids worried her too, with their chatter and 
their giggling enthusiasm. Sarah was the only one of them 
she liked to have with her for any length of time; the 
others were all “nice” girls, approved of by Miss Arden. 

She saw Cynthia Ruthven many times, and Cynthia was 
always civil. She knew that Cynthia did not like her. 
Anthony was different; you could not be afraid of him, 
any more than you could be afraid of Mrs. Ramsay, or of 
Stephen’s aunt who lost all her luggage on the way to 
town and could still smile. She did not care much for 
Stephen’s best man, John Caryll, who spoke in a drawl 
and quoted unknown verses, but she knew that he was 
clever, and supposed, sighing, that one must make allow¬ 
ances for him. 

Lawrence, full of plans and importance, was in his ele¬ 
ment, and Miss Arden’s way. He criticised all Elizabeth’s 
clothes, to Miss Arden’s annoyance. Elizabeth knew that 
his taste was good, and listened to all that he had to say. 
Since she was soon to leave him his interference and his 
mannerisms hardly irritated her at all, but she wished he 
would not embrace her so often or so lingeringly. 

But if Lawrence was outwardly concerned only with the 
trivialities attached to a wedding, inwardly a greater prob¬ 
lem was worrying him. Parental duty, before so light a 
burden, became suddenly heavy and brought a frown to 
his brows. He felt himself responsible and so carried his 
responsibility to Miss Arden. 

She knew that he had something on his mind by the way 
he fidgetted and allowed his pipe to go out. Twice he 
cleared his throat and seemed about to speak, yet did not. 
Only when Miss Arden folded up her work before going 


96 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


to bed did be manage to broach the question that bothered 
him. 

“Er—Anne!” he said casually, scraping out the bowl of 
his pipe. 

“Yes? What is it, Lawrence?” 

He thought, and rightly, that it was going to be difficult. 
Very badly he wanted to abandon his attempt, but for once 
sense of duty triumphed. 

“Um— Well. Er—there’s something I rather wanted to 
say to you. Ask you about, you know.” 

“Yes?” she said again. 

“It’s—well, of course I’m only Elizabeth’s father, and 
—well, you know what I mean. Naturally I can’t speak 
to her, but—er—well, I’ve been wondering whether we— 
er—oughtn’t to—er—ask someone—a—a married woman, 
I mean—to—to—well, have a talk with Elizabeth. Don’t 
you—er—think so?” 

Miss Arden sat very straight. He did not look at her, 
but began to fold the evening paper, fiercely. Miss Arden’s 
voice was dangerous. 

“I don’t think I quite understand you, Lawrence,” she 
said. He knew that she did understand, and was angry. 

“Well, er—I don’t know—how much—er, I mean, what 
Elizabeth knows, but she—um—I can’t help feeling that 
perhaps if Mrs. Cockburn talked to her a bit—before she’s 
married ...” 

“May I ask why Mrs. Cockburn is to be put in my 
place ? ’ ’ said Miss Arden icily. 

“Well, but—hang it all, Anne, you’re not a married 
woman, and—and it’s not a job for a—a spinster.” 

“I can assure you, Lawrence, that I am perfectly capable 
of telling Elizabeth all that she ought to know. I fail to 
see that this is your department.” 

“No, er—quite. Only Elizabeth hasn’t got a mother, 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


97 


and—well, she’s very—er—innocent. Besides it’s not— 
not a pleasant task for you, and—” 

“I am not at all likely to shirk my responsibilities.” 

4 ‘Now, Anne—now, really, Anne, did I suggest such a 
thing? All I meant was—” 

“You would be most ill-advised to ask Mrs. Cockburn 
to interfere—or anyone else for that matter. A great deal 
of nonsense is talked nowadays on this subject. Provided 
the man is nice it is most undesirable that girls should know 
too much. You may take it from me, Lawrence, that it 
simply puts silly ideas into their heads.” 

Lawrence wanted to tell Anne that as she had never been 
married she knew nothing about it, but he dared not. 

“Yes, yes, I daresay. But at the same time I don’t think 
it’s—well, fair.” 

“Really, Lawrence! I should never have thought that 
you would have fallen for this modern craze of telling 
girls everything.” 

“It’s not exactly— What I mean is, it isn’t fair to—” 

“If you haven’t enough faith in Stephen—” 

“Not fair to him,” Lawrence said surprisingly. 

Miss Arden stared at him with uplifted brows. 

“I don’t understand you.” 

“Not fair to either of them—beastly for Stephen. 

“I think you’re making mountains out of molehills.” 

Lawrence was silent, wondering whether this were indeed 
so. If it were, his course was easy to see: he could re¬ 
lapse into inanition. After all, he supposed that Anne 
must know Elizabeth better than he did, and could be 
trusted to do and say what was right. 

“Well, anyhow, Anne, you must find out just what 

Elizabeth—” . 

“My dear Lawrence, you can safely leave it to me, Miss 

Arden interrupted. She spoke with finality. 


98 


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“As long as you tell her what she ought to know—” 

‘ 1 1 shall do all that is necessary . 1 ’ 

Lawrence sighed with fast returning comfort of mind. 
“I expect you know best, Anne. I leave it to you.” 
He went to bed with the pleasant conviction of having 
performed a disagreeable duty. Incidentally, he had 
sloughed his responsibility. It rested on Anne’s shoulders 
now, and on her conscience. 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


Elizabeth awoke on her wedding-morning with an odd 
feeling of mingled excitement and foreboding. As she lay- 
in bed she could see her new trunks, one open, with her 
evening-frocks, carefully folded in tissue-paper, bulging up 
out of the tray; the other locked and strapped, and with the 
initials E. R. shining on the side, in big, black letters. 
E. R.—Elizabeth Ramsay. How funny it sounded, and 
how unreal. She repeated it to herself, half-dreaming, and 
then fell to wondering how Stephen felt this morning; 
whether he too were excited, and whether he knew, or 
guessed, that underneath his bride's excitement, vague 
melancholy lurked, and a certain shrinking. 

Her mind wandered back to last night. She and Aunt 
Anne had laid the last things in those trunks, and had 
marked the last batch of handkerchiefs. And while she 
had packed that taffeta dance-frock that peeped above the 
side of the box Aunt Anne had talked, very quickly and 
mysteriously, of things that Elizabeth only partially com¬ 
prehended. 

Thinking it over now, Elizabeth subconsciously com¬ 
pared her aunt’s words to the pills she had been made to 
swallow in her childhood, smothered in raspberry jam. 
You had never tasted the pills: there was too much jam, 
but you had felt that they were there, and that they were 
nasty. Just so had Aunt Anne talked last night, telling 
you nothing, but hinting that you were about to enter on 
quite a new life, filled with new experiences, some of them 
not pleasant. 

She had wanted to know more, and yet she had been 
99 


100 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


thankful when Aunt Anne stopped. She had been shy, 
and red in the face, and she made Elizabeth shy, more with¬ 
drawn into herself. 

How dismal her room looked, dismantled, and with one 
wardrobe door yawning to show dark emptiness within. 
How queer to think that this was the last time she would 
lie in bed in her room, waiting to be called. She had never 
before realised how much she loved her room, everything 
there was in it, and its exquisite privacy. That brought 
her to another disturbing thought. She tried to picture 
Stephen here, and thought how impossible it was; how im¬ 
possible, and how embarrassing. Probably she would not 
feel that in a new, strange room. And yet . . . Hur¬ 
riedly she switched her mind away from that picture, and 
turned on her side to look at the bridal dress, laid over 
the back of a chair. How pretty it was, with its soft, dull 
folds, and its long train. It would be nice to wear her 
mother’s veil, too, and to carry the sheaf of lilies that would 
arrive this morning. The going-away frock was packed 
in that suit-case; she would change from her wedding-dress 
to that in the hotel. It was queer to think that even your 
brushes and combs were new, a wedding present from Aunt 
Anne. It was as though you became a different person all 
at once when you had a fitted dressing-case of your own, 
and threw away all your old clothes. 

The housemaid came with a can of hot water, and con¬ 
gratulated Elizabeth as she pulled up the blinds. Every¬ 
one seemed to think that this was the happiest day of your 
life; no one realised how mixed were your feelings. 

She got up, and slowly dressed, putting on an old skirt 
and a knitted jumper. Stephen’s present to her lay in the 
flat velvet case on the dressing-table. He had brought it 
yesterday, but she thought she would not wear it until she 
changed into her wedding-dress. But she opened the case, 

, so that while she brushed her hair she could look at the 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


101 


long string of pearls, and occasionally touch them. 

She was to he married at twelve, so there would not be 
much time to attend to all the countless little jobs that 
were left. Perhaps that was as well. If you had nothing 
to do you might brood, and grow unhappy at the thought 
of leaving your home. 

Lawrence looked unfamiliar at the breakfast-table, al¬ 
ready dressed, save for the flower in his button-hole. 
When Elizabeth entered, he said, Here she is! as though 
he had been anxiously awaiting her. Miss Arden rose and 
kissed her with tears in her eyes, and said, My darling. 
Elizabeth clung to her for a moment, and then turned to 
open her letters. 

The morning passed in a dream. More presents came 
and had to be acknowledged. She had to ring up the shop 
that was supplying her shoes, and tell them to send at once. 
Then Sarah appeared, ready, as she said, for the fray. 
Sarah was going to help her to dress, with Miss Arden; 
Sarah was cheerful, and full of jokes; she made Elizabeth 
laugh. 

The orange-blossom was exotic in scent, and heavy. 
They fixed her wreath over her veil and coaxed her hair 
into curls about her ears. 

“How pale you are, my darling!” Miss Arden sighed. 

“Rot!” said Sarah briskly. “Now for the pearls! 
Elizabeth, you lucky little beast!” 

The pearls lay milk-white against her neck, and rose 
slightly with the heave and fall of her breast. The lilies 
lay upon the table, tied with white satin ribbon, and be¬ 
side them her long kid gloves reposed chastely between 
folds of tissue paper. 

They told her to look at herself in the glass. She saw 
a stranger, white and with apprehensive eyes. 

* ‘ It hangs well, ’ ’ she said, in a gasp. ‘ ‘ I think—if you’d 
put a pin just there ...” 


102 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Then Sarah said she must fly; someone came to take the 
trunks to the station cloakroom; Miss Arden hurried away 
to put the finishing touches to her own toilette. 

Elizabeth wandered about her room, to see that nothing 
had been forgotten. How funny it would be to see Stephen 
in a cut-away coat and top-hat! Yesterday when he came 
he had said that his boot-maker hadn’t sent yet. She 
wondered whether he had had to ring up too, and whether 
it was an unlucky sign. Stephen had said that he was 
getting the wind up, but that he looked to John to pull him 
through. Perhaps John would pull her through too; he 
looked as though he would be able to do anything. 

Lawrence called up the stairs to tell them that Aunt 
Anne’s car was waiting, with Mrs. Cockburn, who was to 
accompany her, inside. Aunt Anne answered that she was 
just coming, and returned to Elizabeth’s room, pulling on 
her gloves. 

4 ‘Ready, darling? Come down and show your father 
how lovely you are.” She picked up Elizabeth’s coat of 
white fur, and then put it down again, and held out her 
arms. Elizabeth went to her, in a rush. The tears were 
trembling on the end of her lashes. 

“Oh, Auntie—oh, Auntie!” 

Lawrence called again, impatiently. They went down 
to him, and when he saw Elizabeth he said, Well, well, 
well! a sure sign that he was impressed. Aunt Anne was 
fussy, and said, Take care you don’t crush her dress. She 
said you must not forget your gloves, and then she was 
gone in a whirl of mauve silk, into the waiting car. 

Elizabeth sat down on a straight hard chair in the 
drawing-room. It was as though she were in a dentist’s 
waiting-room. Something inside her was thumping, 
thumping. The drawing-room was unreal, Lawrence too, 
and herself. Ten to twelve ... on any other day she 
would just be coming into the house after a morning’s 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


103 


shopping. To-day she sat attendant upon an unknown 
fate, in the drawing-room, clasping in her hands a great 
sheaf of pale lilies. 

And now that the moment was so close when she would 
step out of the old life into the new, an intangible dread 
took possession of her, numbing her faculties towards 
every feeling but the one fear that she was walking blind¬ 
fold on the brink of a precipice, and that one careless step 
might send her over the edge, to smash upon the rocks she 
knew to lurk in the abyss. 

“Couldn’t have had a better day,” Lawrence said, stand¬ 
ing, watch in hand, at the window. 

“No. Isn’t it perfect?” she answered. 

“Car ought to be here any minute now. What about 
putting your coat on?” He held it ready, and managed 
to gather up her veil in one hand. 

She felt more than ever that she was in the dentist’s 
waiting-room, and that soon, very soon, the door would 
open and a sepulchral voice say, Miss Arden, please! 

“Here it is!” Lawrence exclaimed. “Is my button-hole 
all right, Elizabeth?” 

“Yes, quite,” she said. “Ought—ought we to start?” 

“Yes, we’re a bit late. Doesn’t matter, of course, but 
if you’re ready—?” 

“Quite,” she said, gathering up her train. 

The bridesmaids were in the church porch, laughing 
and talking. One of them cried, Here she is! and suddenly 
Elizabeth realised that she was the chief figure to-day, and 
that they were all waiting for her. Somewhere within the 
church people were turning to see whether she were com¬ 
ing ; she would have to walk up the aisle, between the rows 
of smiling faces, until she reached the place where Stephen 
stood, with the capable John. 

She laid her little cold hand on her father’s arm; some¬ 
one spread out her train behind her; Lawrence whispered 


104 


INSTEAD OF THE THOEN 


fondly in her ear. They went out of the golden sunshine 
into the cool grey church. 

She saw nothing, could distinguish no one in the blurred 
mass of people, until she felt her hand taken in a strong 
clasp and knew that Stephen was there. He said some¬ 
thing; she did not know what it was, but she smiled and 
fixed her eyes on the black and white thing before her that 
was the clergyman. 

Dearly beloved, we are gathered together . . . 

What a lot he was saying in that queer, droning voice 
. . . what wa, it all about ? Marriage, and something to 
do with children. How strong the lilies smelt! 

Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour . . . 

He was speaking now to Stephen. It was beautiful. 

In sickness and in health. 

A lump rose in her throat. How straight Stephen stood; 
how deep and grave and unfaltering sounded his voice. 
Now it was her turn; she heard her own voice speak, quite 
clearly. She was not so nervous after all. 

I, Stephen, take thee, Elizabeth . . . 

She loved Stephen’s voice; it was manly and stern and 
protective. She took his hand, and began to speak after 
the clergyman, looking at him, and wondering what made 
his cheeks so plump and red. 

Someone moved beyond Stephen; it was Caryll, of course, 
with the ring, ready to the instant. She put up her hand 
and saw the gold circlet slip over her knuckle. She was 
married; the rest of the ceremony was nothing. 

In the vestry there was noise and many kisses. Eliza¬ 
beth saw Mrs. Ramsay, all in grey with floating draperies 
and soft plumes; Cynthia, severely swathed in blue; Aunt 
Anne, dabbing at her eyes; Anthony, hot and beaming, and 
Lawrence, shaking hands with the clergyman. 

She signed her name, conscious of Stephen beside her; 
then turned to speak to Mrs. Ramsay. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


105 


“Has anyone told you that you look an angel ?” Mrs. 
Ramsay said. “Because you do. Stephen had to go and 
fetch his boots, poor darling. Wasn’t it trying? Stephen, 
I congratulate you. I believe I’ve said the right thing. I 
must tell Anthony.” She drifted away, presumably to 
do so, and Elizabeth discovered that she was shaking hands 
with Cynthia. 

4 ‘ Congratulations, ’ ’ Cynthia said. ‘ ‘ I knew you’d make 
a lovely bride. ’ ’ 

Stephen was kissing Aunt Anne. How nice of him to 
think of that! 

“Well, Mrs. Ramsay?” said Lawrence jocularly. 

She smiled up at him; Stephen spoke at her elbow. 

“That sounds wonderful, sir. Almost too good to be 
true . 9 ’ 

They went back again into the church; the wedding- 
march sounded in her ears, triumphant; she thought 
that she heard bells, pealing. Her head went up, her 
cheeks were burning, and her hand lay on Stephen’s 
arm. 

In the car they sat side by side, not speaking at first, for 
Stephen’s head was bent over her fingers. Then at last he 
looked up, and spoke huskily, almost as though he were 
awed. 

“Little white bride,” he said, and again she smiled, wist¬ 
fully, thinking, This is not myself, it is a dream. 

In the reception-room at the hotel they stood side by 
side, shaking hands with their guests, laughing, talking, and 
being congratulated. Everyone said what a pretty wed¬ 
ding it was, and did they see the man with the camera out¬ 
side the church? 

“Famous Novelist Weds,” Sarah said teasingly. 

“Anthony wouldn’t let me bring Thomas,” Mrs. Ram¬ 
say complained. * 1 Such a shame. Elizabeth, who is that 
dear man who kissed you in the vestry?” 


106 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“This needs looking into,” Stephen remarked solemnly. 
“Divulge his name, Elizabeth.” 

“Only Mr. Hengist,” she answered, laughing. 

“Introduce him,” commanded Mrs. Ramsay. “Oh, I 
suppose you’re too busy! Will nobody introduce me to 
Mr. Hengist?” 

Mr. Hengist himself came forward, and presently they 
heard Mrs. Ramsay tell him that Thomas had eaten the 
bow someone tied about his neck. 

The breakfast was a great success; champagne revived 
Elizabeth from the weariness that was stealing over her, 
but Stephen had to help her to cut the cake. 

Healths were drunk; Stephen made a speech, and John 
Cary 11 murmured to Elizabeth, Quite a witty effort, what? 
He then caused salmon mayonnaise to be put before her, 
and she ate some of it, rather to her own surprise. 

Lawrence and Mrs. Ramsay, at the far end of the table 
appeared to be engaged in close and earnest conversation, 
about food; Miss Arden was inclined to be lachrymose. 
Beside her Anthony sought to cheer and amuse. 

The vigilant best man was looking at his wrist-watch; 
he touched Elizabeth’s arm and told her that it was time she 
went away to change. She caught Miss Arden’s eye, and 
they rose. 

Mrs. Ramsay whispered to Mr. Hengist, 

“Poor darling, Miss Arden will cry! Not poor darling 
Miss Arden. Poor darling Elizabeth. Do you think I can 
go with them, and help? Then the aunt won’t cry.” 

“Yes, do!” Mr. Hengist said. “She might easily up¬ 
set Elizabeth.” 

So Mrs. Ramsay came floating towards Elizabeth, and 
asked with a winning smile if she might come too. John 
Caryll marched Stephen away, and a maid-servant con¬ 
ducted Elizabeth to her room where her travelling gar¬ 
ments were laid out in readiness for her. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


107 


Miss Arden had no chance to weep because Mrs. Ramsay 
talked so hard and so madly. She made Elizabeth laugh, 
and it seemed that she had left her sunshade in the 
church and didn’t know what had become of her hand¬ 
kerchief. 

Lawrence came presently to say goodbye to Elizabeth. 
He was genuinely affected, and kissed her twice. 

She went out into the passage, dove-grey now, with a 
saucy little hat on her head. Mr. Hengist was there, to 
wish her the best, the very best, of luck. He went with 
them out of the hall, and Elizabeth felt that she never liked 
him so much. 

Stephen was waiting, hat in hand, John at his elbow. 
John had the railway tickets, and was coming to Victoria 
to put them into their train. He looked so conscientious 
and so dogged that Elizabeth wondered whether he would 
consent to leave them at the station, or whether he would 
insist on accompanying them on their honeymoon. 

Stephen stepped forward, his eyes on Elizabeth’s face. 
Lawrence met him, and took his hand. 

“I give her to you,” he said. “Take care of her.” 

“I will,” Stephen said, just as he had said it in the 
church. 

“Oh, my darling, I hope you’ll be happy!” Miss Arden 
said, on a half-sob. 

“I can’t cry, because I’ve lost my hanky,” sighed Mrs. 
Ramsay. “I’m not at all sure that I ought to either. Does 
the bridegroom’s mother cry, or not? I forgot to ask 
Anthony.” 

“’Bout time we pushed off, what?” John drawled. 
“Look out for the confetti.” 

Hurried kisses followed. Elizabeth took Stephen’s hand 
and ran. As they emerged into the sunshine confetti 
showered above them. They got into the car, waved, called 
messages, and were gone. 


108 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Stephen began to brush the confetti from Elizabeth’s 
coat. 

“That scoundrel Anthony’s tied a boot on the back of 
the car,” he said. 

“Ah, I was afraid it had been forgotten!” John re¬ 
marked, showing his relief. “Not at all a bad show, was 
it?” 

“Don’t speak about it as though it were a musical com¬ 
edy,” protested Stephen. 

“I think it was rather like one,” Elizabeth reflected. 

The drive through the streets to Victoria was soon over. 
At the station Stephen and Elizabeth found that, John 
having shouldered all responsibility, there was nothing to 
be done but to walk on to the platform and into the car¬ 
riage which, by some unknown means, John had managed 
to reserve for them. There were five minutes to spare; 
they sat opposite each other, and John stood leaning in at 
the window, saying, 

“Might let me have a line from Paris to say you ar¬ 
rived safely. Luggage is in the rear. Better put the 
tickets in your pocket-book, Stephen. Wish I’d brought 
the odd slipper. Might have hung it on the door.” 

“Oh, thank goodness you didn’t bring it!” Elizabeth 
cried. 

A paper-boy passed; John bought the Morning Post, the 
Sketch, the Bystander, the Sportsman, and Eve, and 
handed them to Elizabeth. 

“In case you get bored with Stephen, Mrs. Ramsay.” 

“Thank you very much, but I don’t think I shall,” she 
smiled. 

“You never know,” he said. “Well, you’re off. Best 
of luck, an’ all that, what? Don’t forget to send me a 
post card.” 

The train began to move. Stephen leaned out of the 
window. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


109 


“ Righto. Thanks again, old chap, for all you’ve done. 
Couldn’t have got through without you!” 

The train slid out of the station; Stephen drew his head 
in, and stood for a moment looking down at Elizabeth. 
Then he sat down beside her, and caught her against his 
heart. 

“At last!” he said, and kissed her, not gently at all, but 
hard and fiercely, on her mouth. “Mine! Mine!’ 9 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


Afterwards, when she was able to look back upon her 
honeymoon as from a great distance, calmly, Elizabeth 
realised that it was the fact of living for the first time in 
a foreign country, in an inevitably bizarre atmosphere, 
which to some extent mitigated the shock that marriage 
gave her. In England, amongst English people and ac¬ 
customed surroundings she could not have borne it, but in 
Paris nothing was real, not even herself. The fairy-like 
beauty of the place helped her; in England beauty would 
not have struck her, because she knew English scenery so 
well that it had become cheap in her eyes. In Paris every¬ 
thing was strange, even the noises which she heard in the 
streets. That, and the foreign tongue, the different race 
and the swiftly moving kaleidoscope of events ever since 
her wedding, all helped to strengthen the fancy that the 
honeymoon was a dream, sometimes pleasant, sometimes 
evil. It was a new word, a new Stephen, and—yes, a new 
Elizabeth. She knew that Stephen’s patience and his un¬ 
derstanding were qualities not many men possessed: in¬ 
stinct told her that. She was immensely grateful to him 
for his consideration and his forbearance, but the depths 
of her nature were unstirred by his passion. She felt only 
distaste, which must, she knew, be hidden. 

She would not permit herself to think of Miss Arden, 
because her thoughts would have been laden with bitter¬ 
ness. It was inconceivable that she could criticise or con¬ 
demn her aunt’s actions. She had a feeling that Aunt 
Anne had betrayed her—no not quite that:—let her down. 
She must not think, then, of Aunt Anne, who had allowed 
her to take this irrevocable step with her eyes blindfolded. 

110 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


111 


Yet there was much in the new life that was more de¬ 
lightful than anything she had ever known. There was 
always someone at hand whose only task in life seemed to 
be to care for her and give her everything she might want. 
Her smallest wish was gratified at once; her frown made 
Stephen anxious, her smile made him happy. The sense of 
power this gave her was wonderful; it was wonderful too 
to be everything in one man’s eyes. 

The ornate decoration of their bedroom in the hotel at 
Paris, its gilt and brocade furniture and general opulence, 
and its total dissimilarity from any other bedroom she had 
known, made it easier for her to see, without embarrass¬ 
ment, Stephen’s shirt flung over a chair, and his pajamas 
on the bed. 

He was untidy; that distressed her. His clothing—she 
was astonished to see how much there was of it—over¬ 
flowed from the adjoining dressing-room into her bedroom. 
She wondered whether any ordinary bride would have 
liked to see it there, cheek by jowl with her own chiffons. 
She hated it. She hated his unshaven face in the morn¬ 
ing, and his ruffled hair; his presence in the room filled her 
with an emotion near to repulsion; she hid it behind a 
valiant smile, but he knew that it was there, and it worried 
him. Then he told himself that this intensely shy atti¬ 
tude was in keeping with his ideal of her; she would grow 
out of it; he tried to think that he would not have liked it 
had it been otherwise. But it hurt him when he kissed her 
awake one morning, and felt her wince. He was careful 
never to do that again. He came into her room when she 
was dressing to go to the Opera; the instinctive clutching 
of her kimono about her gave him pain. He laughed at 
her, and took her in his arms; she sighed, like a child that 
is overwrought, and let him kiss her. Her helplessness 
made him more gentle still; she was so fragile, so easily* 
frightened. 


112 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


She did not know Stephen. She realised that now, and 
thought that the love that survived seeing a man unwashed 
and unshaven before breakfast must be great indeed. It 
was queer that she had never, before her marriage, specu¬ 
lated on her possible feelings towards these little, ugly in¬ 
timacies of their life together. How foolishly innocent she 
had been! How unfair it was that girls should be tossed 
into marriage unprepared, and with the rose-veil of inno¬ 
cence still wrapped about them. It meant a rude awaken¬ 
ing, a shock, a tearing asunder of that romantic veil. You 
were jerked into a new life of which you knew nothing, 
and you were expected to fit into it at once, as though it 
were not wholly alien to your nature. She was glad that 
the honeymoon was to be a long one. She would have time 
to adapt herself, outwardly at least, before she was faced 
with the ordeal of meeting her people again, and her 
friends. She dreaded lest they should perceive her true 
feelings; dreaded her aunt’s tentative questions, or Sarah’s, 
not tentative at all, but grossly frank. 

They went from Paris to Florence. Again she was ex¬ 
hilarated by the change of surroundings, of beauty, and of 
quaintness. Stephen talked of the Renaissance; she was 
awed by the knowledge he displayed: she liked to go out 
with him and hear him talk. He said that she was an in¬ 
veterate sight-seer because she roamed daily through first 
this picture gallery and then that. She answered breath¬ 
lessly, I’ve so longed to see all this! 

“ You ’re happy?” he asked her. The anxiety throbbed 
in his voice. 

“Oh, Stephen!” 

“Yes, but that doesn’t tell me anything,” he pointed 
out. 

“Of course I’m happy!” 

“Cheers! Let’s go on to Rome!” 

“We shall have to buy another small trunk, then,” she an- 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


113 


swered practically. “All those things we bought ... !” 

Her sense of duty was strong, and made him laugh. If 
there were a hole in his sock it must be mended at once; she 
would do nothing else until that was finished. 

“Never mind that!” he said impatiently. “I want to 
drive you out to Fiesole.” 

“I must do this first,” she answered. “And there’s a 
button off your pajamas.” 

“Damn my pajamas. I didn’t marry'you for that.” 

“But, Stephen—” 

“Do it some other time and come out now.” 

“I can’t, Stephen. There are heaps of odd jobs I must 
see to. Why must we go to Fiesole to-day? Won’t to¬ 
morrow do as well?” 

He sulked; that was another side of him she had never 
suspected to be there. It astonished her and made her un¬ 
happy. She could not understand why it was so impera¬ 
tive to go to Fiesole to-day. There seemed to be no reason; 
to-morrow would have done as well, or better, and yet 
Stephen sulked. She wondered when he would make it 
up; in the end it was she who coaxed him round. Then he 
was repentant, and would have done anything she wished 
to show that he was sorry. 

She liked to plan ahead; he preferred to act on the im¬ 
pulse of the moment. “Looking forward” was the nicest 
part of an event to Elizabeth; to him it was the most irk¬ 
some. She, of long training, was always punctual to 
meals; he, unless she urged him, never. If it were a mat¬ 
ter of catching a train she would be ready half an hour too 
soon, and would wear a worried frown and a restless air 
until they were safely in the train, and their luggage too. 
He, ten minutes before it was time to drive to the station, 
would stroll out and buy a pair of gloves. It drove her to 
distraction; it meant that they would be late and would 
have to run to catch the train. If Stephen left his walking- 


114 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


stick behind, Elizabeth fussed to retrieve it. Stephen only- 
laughed, and said, I’ll buy another. 

He saw things from a different standpoint; he said 
things she would not have dreamed of saying. 

“Don’t wear that hat, Elizabeth; I simply loathe it!” 

She thought that she could not have heard aright. She 
had been taught from earliest childhood that personal re¬ 
marks of a disparaging nature, even between the nearest 
of relations, were not only rude, but unkind as well. 

“You—loathe it?” she repeated blankly. 

“Mm. Doesn’t suit you, darling. Do take it off!” 

She did so, slowly. The hurt she felt showed in her face, 
so that he came to her and put his hands on her shoulders. 

“Why, Elizabeth, you’re not offended, are you? I 
didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetest! It’s only that that 
particular shade of blue takes all the colour out of your 
dear little face.” 

“I—see. Which hat would you like me to wear?” 

“The little brown one. Let’s burn the blue atrocity.” 

“Stephen! We couldn’t possibly! It’s new!” 

“Well, never mind if it is. I’m not going to let you 
wear it, so why hang on to it ? ” 

“I couldn’t bum it. It would be such waste.” 

“Give it to the housemaid, then.” 

“Yes, I might do that,” she agreed. “It seems rather 
dreadful, though.” 

At Rome he spoke to her of his income, and found her 
woefully ignorant of all money-matters. In the Arden 
household it was considered a breach of manners if you 
spoke of money as Stephen spoke of it. You did not en¬ 
quire into another person’s means, nor did that person offer 
to expound them to you. She had no idea what was her 
father’s income; to speak of it would have been almost as 
grave a solecism as was the discussion of a prospective 
will. Such subjects were considered to be extremely deli- 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


115 


cate, and as such were kept hidden. She imagined that 
Stephen must feel as uncomfortable when he laid his affairs 
before her as did she. She supposed he had made some 
sort of declaration to her father. She knew from novels 
that this was usual, but she would have died sooner than 
have asked Lawrence what had been divulged. He did not 
volunteer to enlighten her; such a course was counter to 
his creed. 

Stephen spoke of bequests and investments, and book- 
rights. She sat silent, with eyes downcast at first, then laid 
a gentle hand on his arm. 

“Stephen dear, I—I don’t want to know all this.” 

“Does it bore you, precious? I’m awfully sorry, but 
we’d better have it out. Then you’ll know how we stand.” 
His eyes twinkled. “If I grow stingy you’ll know whether 
it’s from poverty or miserliness!” 

“You needn’t tell me,” she said earnestly. ‘ 4 Truly, you 
needn’t!” 

He looked at her, and the truth dawned on him. 

“You quaint little morsel! Why should you be em¬ 
barrassed ? ’ ’ 

Mentally she squirmed under the teasing note in his 
voice. She hated him to make fun of her. 

“Oh—embarrassed! It’s just that I don’t think money 
a particularly interesting topic. Do you?” 

“Not as compared to some others. Isn’t it interesting 
to know where your money comes from ? ’ ’ 

“I—do you think it is?” 

‘ ‘ I want to know what you think. ’ ’ 

“Well, no. At least—I’ve never thought about it.” 

“What a haphazard training!” he smiled. “Didn’t 
your father talk to you about his business and how he makes 
his money?” 

“Oh, no!” she said, shocked. 

“Good Lord! You know, ’Lisbeth, that attitude’s aw- 


116 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


fully Victorian. Artificial and insincere. You’re not a 
Victorian.” 

* 1 Isn’t it nice to be one?” 

‘‘No. Of course it isn’t. Not in that way.” 

“I suppose Aunt Anne’s Victorian, though?” 

“Out and out.” 

She was up in arms at once. 

“You speak as though you don’t like my aunt.” 

“Rot! I like her very much—parts of her. I don’t 
like some things about her, naturally.” 

“Naturally?” 

“Hang it all, darling, you probably don’t like some 
things about my mother!” 

“I like your mother very much. And anyway I 
shouldn’t say I didn’t to you.” 

“Wouldn’t you? Why not?” 

She thought him extraordinary; she had never imagined 
that he would be so difficult to understand. 

“It wouldn’t be polite—or considerate to your feelings.” 

“But, Elizabeth my dear, there’s no such thing as that 
kind of politeness between husband and wife! If there is 
you’re building up a barrier between us.” 

“How can you say such a thing? Of course I’m 
not!” 

‘ ‘ Of course you are. Tell me now, do you like Cynthia ? ’ ’ 

“I—I hardly know her.” 

He pulled her on to his knees, where she sat stiffly, ill- 
at-ease. 

“Say right out that you don’t, you little humbug!” 

She winced at that, and her eyes filled with tears. It 
was as though Mr. Hengist had spoken. 

“If you think—that—of me—!” 

He was remorseful at once, and petted her back to hap¬ 
piness. When she smiled again he reverted to the discus¬ 
sion of his affairs, telling her what he proposed to settle on 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


117 


her for her private use. She did not like that; it seemed 
wrong, and she tried to protest. 

“But, Stephen, I’ve—I’ve got quite a lot of money of 
my own. You know I have—from my mother.” 

“I‘want you to use my money, beloved.” 

“It—it isn’t necessary! I’d rather—” She stopped, 
seeing the look of hurt steal into his face. “Are you sure 
you can afford it?” she ended lamely. 

That delighted him; he roared with laughter, and thought 
her adorable. 

The days flew past; Elizabeth felt as though she had 
been married a very long time and yet was not acclimatised 
to the new conditions of life. Physical contact with Ste¬ 
phen grew less revolting, but no less unpleasant. She went 
through a phase of feeling herself degraded, and although 
she put the fancy from her, knowing that it was absurd, 
it preyed upon her nerves so that they became jangled and 
on edge. She began to jump at sudden noises, and grew 
restless, sometimes even morbid. Deep in her soul lingered 
a tiny fear that Mr. Hengist had been right when he said 
that she did not really love Stephen. The fear was so ter¬ 
rible, so shocking, that she stifled it and would not admit 
of its presence. The complications that must inevitably 
arise, did she acknowledge the fear, effectually prevented 
her from doing so. She assured herself that nothing was 
wrong, that she would grow accustomed to her new life, 
and would, in after days, look back upon this phase as the 
morbid imaginings of a nervous bride. 

Just as she had first been thankful that her honeymoon 
should be spent abroad, so now, was she desirous of return¬ 
ing to England. Hotel life was becoming tedious; much 
as she enjoyed sight-seeing, the constant round of amuse¬ 
ment began to pall on her. She thought that it would be 
easier to settle down if she were installed in her own house, 
with work to do, and time to rest. Stephen too would 


118 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


have work to do, and something besides his love for her to 
occupy his thoughts. They would have a chance to learn 
to live together, not at fever heat, but in the “take it for 
granted way” that she had dreamed of. She wanted pla¬ 
cidity not passion, because she was very young and unde¬ 
veloped, and did not understand that placidity comes in 
middle-life, not in the first years of marriage.. 

In more senses than one the honeymoon was strenuous. 
She began to wish for more society; perhaps, if she had 
really loved Stephen, she would not wish that. As^it was 
she was anxious to see Sarah again, and her other friends, 
but she did not like to suggest to Stephen that they should 
go home. 

In the end it was he who broached the question. Type¬ 
written letters came to him, and he became sometimes rather 
distrait. At last he spoke to Elizabeth, tentatively sug¬ 
gesting that they should leave Italy. 

“Jackson—my agent, darling, you remember—writes 
that Edwards and Tollemache are agitating about my next 
book. Would you mind very much if we thought about re¬ 
turning soon? I ought to get to work on ‘Caraway Seeds’ 
as soon as possible.” 

“Of course not,” she replied instantly. “We’ll go as 
soon as you like.” 

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” 

“Not a bit. I’ve loved being in Italy, but I’d like to go 
home now and see everybody again, and—oh, and hear 
English spoken! ’ ’ 

He was relieved. He had been afraid that she would not 
like to have her honeymoon curtailed. They had arranged 
to be away three months; they had stayed only two. 

“I say, I am glad! I was afraid you’d be disappointed. 
I’ll write off at once to Nana and tell her we’re coming. 
By the way, what date shall I fix?” 

“I don’t mind, Stephen. Just when you like.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


119 


“Nice, adaptable person! I had a sort of an idea that 
we might put in a week in town before we go down 
to Queen’s Halt, and see all our respective relations?” 

“Oh, how lovely. Can you really spare the time?” 

“Yes, rather. I’ll go and write to Nana and a hotel in 
town at once.” 

“I must write to Aunt Anne,” she said. “If you’re go¬ 
ing to write your letters here I’ll go down to the lounge. 
I know what it is when you start. ’ ’ 

“All right, my lady,” he retorted, seating himself at the 
table. “You needn’t think I don’t know why you’re going 
into the lounge.” 

She paused, her hand on the door-knob. 

“Oh, why?” 

“To flirt with the Italian Count,” he said solemnly. 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


Elizabeth stood at the window of her room at Queen’s 
Hotel, and looked with contented eyes down into the dusky 
street. The sounds, the dull, lovely greyness, even the 
smells, were London, and therefore, home. She stood for 
a long time, resting her cheek against the window, watch¬ 
ing the traffic and the scurrying pedestrians. She was 
tired, for she and Stephen had arrived in London that 
same day in the early afternoon, but she had been resting 
on her bed, thinking how important she would feel this 
evening when she entertained her father and her aunt to 
dinner. It was sweet of Stephen to postpone the invitation 
to his mother until to-morrow; little things like that, which 
he did, warmed her heart towards him and made her think 
that, after all, she was lucky in her choice of husbands. 
She had protested at the time, saying that of course they 
must ask Mrs. Ramsay, but Stephen had stood firm. 

“Your turn to-day,” he had said. “Mine to-morrow.” 

“Stephen, it’s dear of you, but really I’d rather you 
rang up Mater and—” 

‘ 1 Naughty little fibber! You wouldn’t. ’ ’ 

“But I’d simply hate to offend your mother—or hurt 
her—” 

“She won’t be offended or hurt, darling. She isn’t that 
sort. I shall go along to see her this afternoon. She’ll 
understand.” 

“Then I shall come too,” Elizabeth said. 

“No, you won’t. You’re going to rest. You’re dog- 
tired already. You shall give me all the messages you like 
for Mater, and I’ll do my best to deliver them.” 

120 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


121 


She gave way to him, hoping that it was not wrong to 
do so. It was nearly time to dress for dinner now, but 
Stephen had not yet returned. She was watching the 
street for him, wrapped in a blissfulness she had not felt 
during all her honeymoon. In England things would be 
easier. Curiously enough, now that the honeymoon was 
over and she was to meet her aunt and father as a wife of 
two months 1 standing she felt a great pride in Stephen, and 
in herself for possessing him for a husband. 

The bitterness she felt towards Miss Arden was still there, 
but so hidden and smothered that she was hardly conscious 
of it. At the moment she felt only excitement at the pros¬ 
pect of seeing her again: excitement and importance. Now 
at last she was grown-up, and a creature of account. 

She turned from the window to survey her room again, 
letting her eyes dwell lovingly on each solid and massive 
piece of furniture, emblems of respectability so sadly lack¬ 
ing abroad. It was warm, a golden September evening, 
but she had had a fire lit in the grate just so that she 
might look at it and feel that she was really in England. 
Central-heating was all very well, but it was not compan¬ 
ionable. 

Lunch on the dining-car of the train up from Dover had 
been delightful, because it was so dull and English. There 
was boiled cod—on dining-cars there always was—and 
roast beef, and fruit tart, things she had never imagined 
she would yearn for. And here, in this solid and respect¬ 
able bedroom she had had tea—real Tea with a capital 
letter—triangular morsels of bread and butter, and deadly 
plum cake, cut in strips. It was horrible, but no other 
country in the world could—or would—manufacture it. 
She ate it all. 

The chamber-maid came in, heralded by a discreet knock. 
She was prim and middle-aged, heavy-footed, and clumsy. 
Elizabeth loved her. 


122 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“What a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” she said, just to 
hear an English answer. 

“Yes, madam. Will you have the blinds drawn now?” 

“Please,” Elizabeth said, coming away from the win¬ 
dow. 

The blinds were jerked down, curtain rings rattled along 
a brass rod. 

“Is there anything else you’d like, madam?” 

“No, thank you.” 

The maid went out, and Elizabeth opened the door of 
her wardrobe to select a frock. 

She had almost finished dressing before she heard Ste¬ 
phen in the adjoining room. He called through the com¬ 
municating door. 

“Can I come in, ’Lisbeth?” 

“Yes, do. You’re awfully late. I’m nearly ready.” 

He entered. 

“Am I? Doesn’t matter. You’ll want to see your 
people alone. I shan’t be long. London looks good, 
doesn’t she?” 

“So quiet and restful,” she nodded. “Was Mater in?” 

“Rather, the darling! Sent her love to you. She’s com¬ 
ing round to see you to-morrow morning. That all right? 
I said I’d ring her up if it wasn’t.” 

“Oh, quite all right! Only it’s I who ought to go to 
her. Are you sure she didn’t mind?” 

“Not a bit. She quite understands that you want to 
see your own people first. Did you sleep at all this after¬ 
noon, dear?” 

“I dozed. I was too happy to sleep. Tea was so glori¬ 
ous—with plum cake.” 

“0, Lord! Don’t, don’t start rhapsodising over that 
cod again, darling! I can’t bear it, and I know you’re go¬ 
ing to!” 

She laughed. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


123 


“You don’t understand. It was because it was so typi¬ 
cally English.” 

* ‘ God-forsaken. ’ ’ 

“You can’t have a God-forsaken cod,” she said. 

“How topping! Of course you can. God-forsaken cod. 
What a brilliant inspiration! Wish I’d thought of it.” 

“You did. And it really hasn’t any sense at all.” 

“None of the really funny things have. Lord, look at 
the time! Have you got my studs?” 

“They’re in the little silver box on your dressing-table. 
You’ll find your dress-shirts in the second long drawer. 
Hurry up, won’t you ? ’ ’ 

“ ’Lisbeth, you haven 1 1 unpacked my things?” 

“Yes, I have. Naturally.” 

“Darling, I wish you hadn’t. You’re really most dis¬ 
obedient. Didn’t I expressly command you to rest?” 

Stephen, do hurry up! I did rest—and anyway what 
cheek to talk about your express commands!” 

“Love, honour and obey,” he quoted severely. 

11 Oh, go along! ’ ’ she begged. 

Someone knocked on the door. 

“Come in!” Elizabeth called, opening her jewel-case. 

The door was opened slightly and a page-boy announced 
that Mr. and Miss Arden were in the lounge. 

Elizabeth slipped a ring on her finger, and jumped up, 
snapping a bracelet round her arm. 

“All right, I’ll come. Stephen, go and get dressed 
quickly! I’d no idea it was quite so late. That clock must 
be slow. I’m simply dying to see Auntie—and Father! 
Do I look all right ? ’ ’ 

“Perfect,” he said. “Give me one kiss before you go, 
and I’ll be quick. Otherwise I won’t.” 

“You’re idiotic,” she said, but she kissed him, hurriedly. 

The Ardens were watching the lift eagerly; Elizabeth 
stepped out of it and almost ran towards them. 


124 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Auntie! Father!” 

There was laughter and kisses, Miss Arden’s arm about 
her waist, countless questions, none answered, and then 
more kisses. 

‘ ‘ Let me look at you, my darling!’ ’ Miss Arden said at 
last, and stood back to survey her niece. She sighed, and 
took Elizabeth’s hand. “Oh, my dear child!” 

“You’re looking well,” Lawrence remarked, with satis¬ 
faction. “Never seen you look better.” 

“Oh, she looks tired!” Miss Arden cried. “I do hope 
you haven’t been overdoing it, dear?” 

“Not a bit, Auntie. I’m not really tired, either. It’s 
just the effect of the journey. How are you? and you, 
father?” 

“Oh, Vm all right,” Miss Arden said. 

“We miss our little girl,” Lawrence added, in a melan¬ 
choly voice. “And where is my son-in-law?” 

Elizabeth gave an excited little laugh. She was seated 
between them on the sofa, one hand held by Miss Arden, 
the other by Lawrence. 

“Isn’t he dreadful to be so late? He went to see Mater 
and only got back a few minutes ago. However, he prom¬ 
ised to hurry. I want you to myself for a bit.” She 
squeezed their hands. “ It’s so lovely to be back and to see 
you both again! ’ ’ 

“How did you enjoy Florence?” Lawrence asked. 

“Yes, tell us all about it!” begged Miss Arden. 

‘ ‘ Oh, it was beautiful! I can’t tell you how beautiful! 
Rome too, in a different way. And Paris! I took heaps 
of snapshots. I’ll show them to you after dinner. Ste¬ 
phen was awfully rude about my photography. He says 
I shall develop into an album-fiend. Isn’t it horrid of him? 
Auntie, I’ve liked cod to-day for the first time! They had 
it on the train, and it thrilled me. Only I daren’t say so 
to Stephen because he hates it. ’ ’ So she chattered, switch- 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


125 


ing from one triviality to another, conscious of being un¬ 
natural. She felt that she was talking somewhat as Ste¬ 
phen talked, and wondered why. It was curious that she 
should do it to the Ardens and not to him. 

Then Stephen came downstairs, two at a time, and Eliza¬ 
beth thought how tall and good-looking he was, and how 
well-tailored. 

“Here you are!” she said. “I’ve been telling them 
about my snapshots.” 

Stephen kissed Miss Arden and shook hands with Law¬ 
rence, warmly. 

“How jolly to see you again! Don’t encourage ’Lisbeth, 
I implore you! She produces snapshot after snapshot, 
points to a misshapen splosh in the background, and says, 
‘And that’s Stephen!’ Do you like Martini, Miss Arden, 
or would you prefer a vermouth ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing for me, thank you, Stephen,” she answered. 

“ ’Lisbeth?” He asked her out of courtesy; she never 
drank cocktails. 

“Vermouth, please, Stephen,” she said, as though she 
had been in the habit of imbibing it for years. 

Dinner was a merry function that evening; they all 
talked, and together. It seemed to Elizabeth that she had 
seldom been so bright in conversation. Perhaps it was the 
cocktail, and the wicked sparkle of champagne in her glass. 
After dinner Stephen took Lawrence into the billiard-room, 
and Elizabeth and her aunt went upstairs for a quiet talk. 

They sat before the fire in Elizabeth’s room, and con¬ 
straint fell upon them. Elizabeth was reduced to produc¬ 
ing her snapshots. 

“Our little girl has quite blossomed forth,” Lawrence 
said on the way home. Then, as Miss Arden was silent, he 
added in a hurt tone, “Don’t you think so?” 

“She has changed,” Miss Arden said. 

“Oh, nonsense!” Lawrence replied uneasily. It was 


126 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


really rather mean of Anne to try and spoil his evening. 

“She isn’t herself. She’s thinner too.” 

“All your imagination!” Lawrence said loudly. “7 saw 
no change in her—except that she has, as I say, blossomed 
forth.” 

“I daresay you didn’t. You’re only a man.” 

Lawrence was accustomed to hear his sex referred to in 
a disparaging way, but to-night it annoyed him. 

“That’s as may be. I am at least Elizabeth’s father.” 

“ It’s not to be expected that you would notice things as 
I do.” 

“I repeat, you’re imagining it. Next you’ll say that her 
marriage is not a success! ’ ’ 

“I hope not,” she said seriously. 

“Good gracious, Anne! Well, really! It’s a good thing 
we don’t all see things in this morbid way! It struck me 
that Elizabeth was in great spirits. In fact, a thoroughly 
happy bride.” 

“I daresay,” Miss Arden said crushingly. “All I know 
is that she’s changed, and doesn’t look well.” 

This was very disturbing. Lawrence cleared his throat 
and sought for an answer. 

“A honeymoon is often rather a trying period,” he said 
airily. Then, as Miss Arden opened her mouth to retali¬ 
ate, he added hastily, “Time will show.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Arden, and left it at that. 

Mrs. Ramsay appeared next morning soon after break¬ 
fast, one end of her fur trailing behind her. 

“My dear, I nearly lost my note-case in the street, only 
such a dear boy picked it up and ran after me with it. 
How are you, darling? and did you have a jolly time? 
What an adequate way of putting it! ” 

“I’m very well, thank you. It’s so nice of you to come 
to see me. I ought to have called on you with Stephen yes- 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 127 

terday, but he made me rest instead. I do hope you’ll for¬ 
give me!” 

Mrs. Ramsay sat down in a large chair; the rest of her 
fur slid to the floor and remained there until a solicitous 
page-boy came to pick it up. 

“What nonsense, dear! I didn’t want to see you a bit 
yesterday, any more than you wanted to see me. I only 
wanted Stephen. Isn’t that delightfully rude, and don’t 
I put things badly ? Did you get that frock in Paris ? It’s 
charming.” 

“Rue de la Paix,” Elizabeth said. “I’m—afraid I was 
awfully extravagant. ’ ’ 

‘‘ One always is. Paris makes me reckless. Such a nice, 
wicked feeling. I wish I’d brought Thomas. He’s dying 
to see his new relation.” 

“Oh, dear Thomas! He wouldn’t have been allowed 
here, so it’s just as well you didn’t bring him, perhaps.” 

“What a shame! Don’t you think I could have got 
round that burly porter? Never mind, though. Did you 
feel gory and mediaeval in Florence ? ’ ’ 

“N-no, not exactly. What a wonderful place it is!” 

“Isn’t it? Funnily enough, Stephen’s father took me 
there on my honeymoon. I don’t remember where we 
stayed, but I know that George lost his stud one night and 
had all the staff into our room to help him find it. So try¬ 
ing for me; I was dressing, you see, and at that time I 
hadn’t grown accustomed to George’s ways.” 

Elizabeth laughed, and there fell a silence. Mrs. Ram¬ 
say started off again. 

“As usual I began at the wrong end of the stick. I 
didn’t come to talk about George’s stud—no one ever 
found it, by the way. I don’t think George ever really got 
over it— Where was I ? Oh, yes! What I wanted to say 
was, how lovely it is to see you both home again! 
Stephen’s very happy, my dear. I’d like to thank you for 


128 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


making him so, but I know that’s quite out of place. 
Cynny’s coming to call soon, but she said she wasn’t going 
to inflict herself on you at once. I expect you’re pretty 
tired, aren’t you?” 

“Oh—not really,” Elizabeth replied. 

Mrs. Ramsay cast her a fleeting glance. 

“Well, you look it, darling. I shall speak severely to 
Stephen. He mustn’t let you overdo it. He’s a strenu¬ 
ous boy, you know. Always was. Never would lie still 
in his perambulator. Dear me, it’s awfully hard to realize 
that he’s married!” 

“Yes, I expect it must be. I—I find it hard to realise 
that I’m married sometimes! ’ ’ 

Then Stephen came in, and Elizabeth was able to sit 
quiet while he talked. It was strange that she could not 
be bright and conversational with Mrs. Ramsay when she 
had been so talkative to her own relations. You couldn’t 
get rid of the feeling that, in spite of her inconsequence, 
Mrs. Ramsay was clever, far cleverer than you were your¬ 
self. That tied your tongue; you were afraid to advance 
an opinion because your opinions were always so different 
from those of the Ramsays. You felt too that the Ram¬ 
says thought privately that you were very ordinary. Not 
Stephen, of course. 

Mrs. Ramsay went to have tea with Cynthia that after¬ 
noon, and Cynthia curled her lip, and said, Well? 

“Oh, Cynny, I don’t know!” Mrs. Ramsay sighed. 
“She’s—a dear little thing, but I can’t get any further 
with her! I’ve tried and tried, but she makes me nervous, 
and I can’t say what I want to. I talk the most arrant 
nonsense, and she smiles, and says, Yes, I know. So very 
uninspiring. I wish I could get beneath her—her perfect 
manners.” 

“Probably you wouldn’t find anything,” Cynthia said. 

“Darling, that’s horribly ill-natured. I won’t believe 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


129 


that it’s true. Poor child! I can’t help feeling sorry 
for her.” 

“Good lord, why?” 

“Well, my dear, Stephen’s very like his father, and— 
and not a bit like Elizabeth.” 

“Funny point of view. If I’m sorry for anyone I’m 
sorry for Stephen—tied to a pretty face.” 

Mrs. Ramsay rescued her gloves from Thomas. 

“So nice to sit opposite Elizabeth’s face every morning 
at breakfast,” she murmured. 

‘ ‘ Are you being sarcastic, mater ? ’ ’ 

“No, not at all. I mean it. The thing that bothers me 
is—Cynny, this is between you and me alone—I don’t—I 
can’t be sure that Elizabeth cares for Stephen —really 
cares for him. ’ ’ 

“Oh!” said Cynthia, and set her cup down with a click. 
“That’s it, is it ? God help them both, then, for they won’t 
help themselves.” 

“Cynny, I’m not sure—it’s only just a—a sort of feel¬ 
ing that I have, and I may be quite wrong!” 

“Yes, I understand. What attracted her? Money, or 
fame?” 

“Don’t, my dear! It—it sounds so crude and hateful. 
I’ve probably been misled by her manner. And then, of 
course, she’s shy. That aunt, too. I wish I could get near 
Elizabeth. I’d be such a lot of use to her. Only I can’t. 
She holds me off, she’s so—so proper. What a horrible 
word!” 

Cynthia selected a cake with some deliberation. 

“What about Stephen?” 

Mrs. Ramsay did not answer for a moment. Then she 
looked across at Cynthia and spoke quite slowly, and with 
none of her usual sparkle. 

“I believe what he wants me to believe. Everything is 
all right.” 

“I see,” said Cynthia. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


Queen’s Halt lay in a hollow beyond Cranbrook, with a 
giant elm for gate-keeper, and slim poplars as sentinels 
around. 

Legend, or history, ascribed its name to the passing of 
Queen Bess, who was supposed to have rested there a 
night in the course of one of her pilgrimages. It was more 
probable that if the Queen had journeyed this way she 
would have chosen the Manor as her halt, a mile on, up the 
hill, but the Ribblemeres, who had lived there since the 
beginning of things, laid no claim to this distinction and 
showed no desire to wrest its title from the old white house 
below. 

Queen’s Halt, gabled and beamed, with friendly 
windows, and squat chimneys, and swallows nesting under 
the eaves, stretched itself in the middle of its garden, 
which had grown and spread about it on many levels. 

Before it the flower gardens lay, and the new tennis- 
court; on either side the orchards and the old pleasance, 
and behind, an uneven yard with moss padding between 
the flagstones and an aged pump keeping watch beside the 
raintub. 

The yard merged into a meadow, studded over with 
chestnut-trees and oaks, through which a little stream, 
crystal-clear, bubbled and sang its way over the rounded 
pebbles on its bed. Violets grew there in the spring, and 
irises, pale primroses and blue forget-me-nots, and all the 
year round hens, speckled, and buff, and white, were dotted 
here and there on the grass, walking at will about the coops, 
languidly searching for grubs. Sweet-faced ducks wad- 

130 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


131 


died in solemn procession from the yard to the stream and 
stayed there, half in, half out of the water. Beyond the 
stream the wood began, straggling at first, then dense 
—with Kentish undergrowth, and alive with scuttling, bob¬ 
tailed rabbits. 

The orchard, born at a distance from the house, to the 
east, had wandered through many years nearer and nearer 
to the house, and spread stray apple-trees and plum all 
amongst the flowers in the garden. So that in the spring 
white blossoms and palest pink fluttered down like snow 
upon the daffodils and lay, flecks of foam, upon the close- 
cut turf. 

In September, when Elizabeth first saw it, the garden 
was rich and warm beneath the changing tints, and the 
house basked golden in the autumn sun. Very slowly 
were the leaves turning, so that here and there, peeping 
from out the softer green, splashes of red and orange 
showed, heralds of the year's decline. The late roses were 
wide-spread, trembling before their approaching end, and 
all about them the Canterbury bells nodded to each other, 
and the lavender waved, thick and fragrant on either side 
the flagged walks. Beyond were masses of phlox, purple 
and white, and palest pink. Blue bordering flowers 
stretched at their feet, and a few tall lilies stood about 
them, pure white with golden hearts. Asters flaunted every 
colour on a neighbouring bed, and beside the old wall of 
mellow red, the sweet-peas rambled, casting their scent 
about them. 

A hedge of yew with an arch clipped in the centre shut 
the sunk rock-garden from view. You walked down the 
flagged path, over the tiny flowers that pushed their way up 
between the cracks, and stood beneath the arch, at the 
top of the moss-grown steps that wound their rustic way 
down through the terraced rockery to the pond below. 
There gold-fish dwelt, and frogs, beneath a fountain play- 


132 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


ing rainbow-coloured in the sun, and there a mournful 
willow bowed its head until its whispering leaves dipped 
listless to the water’s edge. 

Elizabeth cried out when first she saw Queen’s Halt, 
thinking it the most beautiful home on earth. Everything 
in it, all its quaint, old furniture, every plant in the gar¬ 
den she thought delightful, only Nana, tall and prim, made 
her shy and ill-at-ease. She had expected the old nurse 
of fiction, buxom and smiling, domineering perhaps, but 
kind. She found a thin woman with an impassive coun¬ 
tenance, w T ho treated her with quiet respect, and with 
ceremony handed over the keys. 

Just as Mrs. Ramsay found it impossible to pierce be¬ 
neath Elizabeth’s outward veil, so did Elizabeth, in her 
turn, find it impossible to become intimate with Nana. 
She thought perhaps Nana was jealous, and disapproving; 
no trace of those feelings was apparent in her bearing. 
Her manners were unimpeachable; if she disagreed with 
Elizabeth she put forward her own suggestion with defer¬ 
ence, and showed no desire to domineer. She baffled 
Elizabeth with her calmness, and her tight smile. Eliza¬ 
beth hated her. 

Stephen was afraid that Elizabeth might be dull at first, 
buried as she was in the depths of the country. She as¬ 
sured him that there was no fear of it. While the country 
was there to explore, while the fowls required attention, 
and while rabbits scuttled in the woods boredom, for her, 
would be impossible. There were Stephen’s dogs too to 
be exercised and groomed, three of them, all different. 
Of Hector, the Irish wolfhound, she was at first nervous. 
She had never seen so large a dog before, but she was 
careful to hide her alarm of him in case Stephen should 
laugh, or not understand. The silky cocker, Flo, was her 
favourite, because Flo was gentle, and had liquid, mourn¬ 
ful eyes. But Flo would never willingly leave Stephen. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


133 


She was older than the others and preferred to be under 
Stephen’s desk when Elizabeth went with Hector, and 
Jerry, the Airedale, for a tramp through the woods. 

“Keeping house,” the duty to which Elizabeth had so 
eagerly looked forward, proved to be less pleasant than 
she had expected, and not a duty at all, but a hobby. 
For years Nana had held the reins of this office; Elizabeth 
acknowledged that it would be unfair to wrest them from 
her. Nana assumed that Elizabeth would find the task 
onerous; Stephen would not hear of her attempting it. 
Sadly she thought, how little they understood her! She 
assumed joint responsibility with Nana; Stephen laughed, 
thinking it a child’s hobby. 

Almost at once after their return he plunged into the 
work that awaited him. Elizabeth looked with awe upon 
the sheets of scrawled manuscript, marvelled that he could 
write so fast and in so great a muddle. His study, he said, 
was inviolate. She asked, Against me ? He told her not to 
say silly things. It was inviolate against all spring- 
cleaning or tidying invasion. She pointed to the dust 
upon his desk. 

“I like it,” he said simply. 

“But how extraordinary!” she exclaimed. 

“Have you ever looked at dust with the sun on it? he 

asked. 

She never had; she considered the question absurd. 

“It’s perfectly beautiful,” he said. 

She ventured to arrange a bowl of roses on his desk, 
the petals fell; he ordered that the bowl should be removed. 
She was hurt, but she said nothing. 

In imagination she had seen herself seated quietly in the 
room while he wrote, sewing, or perhaps with a book. 
When first she made this dream reality, and tiptoed into 
the room, he spoke impatiently, and without raising his 

head. 


134 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Yes, what is it!” 

“It’s all right,” she said in a low, soothing voice that she 
would have assumed when speaking to a sick person. “It’s 
only me.” 

He looked up then, and his frown disappeared. 

“Oh, you, darling! What do you want?” 

“Nothing,” she said. “I’ve just brought my work in 
here. Don’t stop writing. I shan’t talk to you.” 

He watched her sit down on the sofa. There was a 
doubtful look in his eyes, but she did not see it. After a 
few moments he bent again over his paper, and went on 
writing. 

She was morbidly anxious to make no sound, therefore 
she sneezed, stifling it to a tiny noise in her throat. Again 
Stephen looked up, amused. 

“Darling, what a funny little noise! What was it?” 

“A sneeze,” she said. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean 
to disturb you. ’ ’ 

“How awfully conscientious! ’Lisbeth, if that’s one 
of my socks, give it to Nana! I don’t want you to slave 
over my things.” 

“I’m not. Stephen, if you talk to me I shall feel I’m 
hindering you.” 

He went on with his work, but he wrote more slowly now, 
and spasmodically. In the pauses between the hurried 
scratching of his pen he stared out of the window, chin 
in hand. Elizabeth watched him covertly. 

“The lawn wants mowing,” Stephen said, absent- 
mindedly. 

“I’m afraid you’re not getting on very fast,” she re¬ 
plied, in some concern. 4 4 Does my being here worry you ? ’ ’ 

“Not in the least. The only thing that worries me is 
Geoffrey. I’m not at all sure that I shan’t give him an¬ 
other name.” 

4 ‘ Is Geoffrey your hero ? ’ ’ she said. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


135 


He made a grimace. 

“You little horror! It sounds .like a Victorian melo¬ 
drama. ’ ’ 

“What does?” she said, bewildered. “Hero?” 

“Of course. One pictures a golden-haired and blue¬ 
eyed young colossus, with the strength of a lion and the 
face and bearing of an archangel. Don’t ask me what my 
‘villain’ is like!” 

“But if you don’t call him your ‘hero,’ what are you 
to call him?” 

“Geoffrey. No, Norman. God, what an inspiration! 
Norman! It’s perfect. It changes the whole disposition 
of the man. Elizabeth dear, go and pick flowers, or feed 
the fowls, or bathe in the stream. I’m going to tear all 
this up and start afresh.” 

She gathered up her work. 

“I’m worrying you? You’d rather I went ?’’ 

He had pulled fresh paper towards him, and was scrib¬ 
bling fast. 

“No, dearest, but I shan’t be pleasant company until 
I’ve started Norman in life, so you’d better go. I don’t 
want to bore you.” 

“Oh, I’d rather stay! I shan’t speak,” she said. 

At half-past four she crept out. Her stealthy departure 
irritated him. He wanted to tell her to walk like a rea¬ 
sonable being, but he checked the impulse, for fear of hurt¬ 
ing her feelings. She re-appeared presently, bringing him 
some tea. 

“Thanks,” he said curtly, and allowed it to grow cold. 
Not until after six did he awake from his abstraction; then 
he found that Elizabeth was still in the room. 

“Darling, you haven’t been here all the time? 

“Yes, I have. I liked it.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t, babe. I don’t want you to stuff 
indoors just because the spirit moves me. It worries me. 


136 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


* ‘ I ’ve been quite happy, ’ ’ she repeated. 

Soon their neighbours began to call. The first of them 
was Nina Trelawney, who came quickly up the drive one 
afternoon on an informal visit. She found Elizabeth un¬ 
der the cedar-tree on the lawn, and went to her. 

“I’m sure you’re Elizabeth!” she said, as soon as she 
was near enough for her voice to be heard. “You an¬ 
swer so exactly to Stephen’s description. I’m Nina Tre¬ 
lawney. If he hasn’t told you of me, it’s extremely ob¬ 
jectionable of him. How do you do?” 

Elizabeth shook hands nervously. 

“Yes, of course my husband has spoken of you,” she 
said conventionally. “How kind of you to come and see 
me! Won’t you sit down ? ’ ’ 

Nina chose a deck chair, and sank into it. 

“This isn’t a really, truly call,” she explained, with a 
friendly smile. “I’m coming with my mother to leave 
cards in the approved manner very soon. I felt I couldn’t 
wait until then, though, so I came to-day, just to say how 
awfully glad I am that you and Stephen have arrived. 
Oh, and to extend a welcome! Isn’t that a lovely ex¬ 
pression? I found it in a book. How is Stephen?” 

“Very well, thank you. Very busy too. You’ll stay 
to tea with me, won’t you?” 

“Thanks, I hoped you’d ask me to. I was awfully sorry 
I couldn’t come to your wedding. I had the accursed 
plague, you know. ’Flu. Mother told me that it was a 
charming affair, which made it much worse for me, not 
being there. Is Stephen working now? Can I shout to 
him in a loud voice?” 

“Oh, no!” Elizabeth said earnestly. “He hates to be 
disturbed! ’ ’ 

Nina looked at her, then at the end of her sunshade, with 
which she was prodding the ground. 

“Yes, I know, but don’t you think it’s good for him?” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


137 


‘‘I wouldn’t interrupt his work for worlds,” Elizabeth 
said. “I—I suppose you’ve known him for a long time?” 

“Our acquaintance started in the perambulator,” Nina 
nodded. “We tried to poke each other’s eyes out. Meta¬ 
phorically, we still try. That’s the worst of being brought 
up as brother and sister. One never troubles to be polite, 
and horrible fights ensue. How do you like the Halt?” 

Elizabeth had not known that Stephen’s friendship with 
Nina was of so long a date. It was rather unpleasant to 
think that he had known Nina years and years before he 
had met his wife. Only, of course, it was silly to feel like 
that about it. 

“I think Halt is lovely,” she said. “The garden fasci¬ 
nates me especially. It’s so unexpected and rambling.” 

“And so delightfully disorderly,” Nina added. “I love 
a garden without rhyme or reason. Our own is perfectly 
soul-killing. My father’s an expert gardener and botan¬ 
ist, and he loves symmetrical beds and colour schemes. 
The result is like a mathematician’s idea of heaven. This 
is the sort of garden you can love. You wouldn’t feel a 
criminal either if you picked flowers from it.” 

“Can’t you in yours?” Elizabeth asked, smiling. 

“Oh, dear me, no! Everything’s too rare and precious. 
Besides you can’t pick a flower with a five-syllabled Latin 
name, can you? Aren’t we talking rot? Do tell me, has 
anyone called yet ? ’ ’ 

“You’re the first,” Elizabeth answered. 

“Am I really? How nice! By the way, I didn’t see 
you in church on Sunday, ma’am!” 

“N-no!” Elizabeth frowned slightly. “Stephen 
wouldn’t go, and I was too shy to go alone.” 

“How base of Stephen! He’s got a down on church¬ 
going, hasn’t he ? I remember he once came to see Mummy 
and inveighed against convention and—and—oh, yes, pusil¬ 
lanimity ! ’ ’ 


138 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


“I don’t quite see that,” Elizabeth confessed. 

“Nor did we till he explained. With truly great mag¬ 
nanimity he informed us that he had no objection to peo¬ 
ple going to church if they really wanted to, but what he 
did object to—most rampantly—was people going to church 
for fear of what their neighbours would say if they didn t. 
That was the pusillanimity. He loathes and abhors the 
Tomlinsons—you’ll meet them soon—because they daren’t 
play tennis on Sunday for fear the Drurys, next door, 
should hear the balls. Personally, I sympathise with the 
Tomlinsons. I always wilt when a disapproving eye is 
bent upon me.” 

“But does Stephen never go to church?” Elizabeth 
asked. 

‘'1 believe he wanders down occasionally to obscure serv¬ 
ices. I never see him at the fashionable time. Of course, 
if he were a newcomer and displayed this shocking laxity 
no one would call. As it is, 'Ramsays’ are an institution, 
and known to be queer. 'Just a little eccentric, my dear, 
but such a brilliant young man.’ You know the style. 
Oh, here comes Nana!” She jumped up, and walked to 
meet her. “How do you do, Nana? I introduced myself 
to Elizabeth—by the way, can I call you that, Elizabeth?” 

“Please do,” Elizabeth said, feeling that she, as the 
married woman, should have had the initiative here. 

'' Well, Miss Nina! ” Nana said. ' ‘ And does Mr. Stephen 
know you’re here?” 

“No, and Elizabeth won’t let me shriek to him,” Nina 
said gaily. “I believe she spoils him, Nana.” 

Nana gave her tight-lipped smile, and looked at Eliz¬ 
abeth. 

“Will you have tea here, madam, or indoors?” 

“Which would you like?” Elizabeth asked her guest. 

“Here, please; it’s more exciting. Earwigs never drop 
into one’s tea indoors. Oh, there is Stephen!” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


139 


Stepb *1 came sauntering out of the library window, 
which was flung open to let the warm, rose-scented air into 
his room. He was looking very untidy, Elizabeth thought, 
in old grey flannels and a tweed coat. When he saw Nina 
he shouted, HulZo/ and hurried towards her. 

‘ 1 1 say, old girl, this is topping of you! Have you been 
here long ? Why did no one tell me ? How are you, kid ? ’’ 

Elizabeth was considerably taken aback to see him im¬ 
plant a brotherly kiss on Nina’s cheek, and give her shoul¬ 
ders a quick hug. 

“Jolly quiet, weren’t your’ he remarked. He smiled 
down at Elizabeth. “She generally heralds her arrival 
with loud cries.” 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be disturbed,” 
Elizabeth explained. 

Nina sat down again and opened her sunshade. 

“I was severely checked. I think you’re very lucky to 
have such a nice wife, Stephen.” 

“I am,” he said. “You’re not in the sun, Nina, so why 
the outspread umbrella?” 

“ ’Tisn’t an umbrella,” she protested. “If you weren’t 
so abominably dense, you’d grasp the fact that it’s a 
new sunshade, and I’m ostentatiously displaying its 
glories.” She tilted a laughing face towards Elizabeth. 
“Don’t you think it’s rather lovely?” she inquired. 
“The strange flower just under the butterfly excited Dad¬ 
dy’s interest. He had an idea that it’s a Tetrapetalous 
Argemene Mexicana, but he isn’t sure. Anyway, I tell 
people that it is, because it sounds so impressive.” 

“What is it in its week-day clothes?” asked Stephen, 
poking daisies into the buckle of Elizabeth’s shoe. He was 
seated on the grass, between their chairs. 

“My dear, I haven’t a notion! I hope no one ever tells 
me, because it’s sure to be something quite ordinary and 
unromantic. ’ ’ 


140 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Tea was brought on a folding table, which Nina prophe¬ 
sied would collapse, and immediately the midges and cater¬ 
pillars made themselves felt. As Elizabeth poured out 
she took covert stock of Nina, and admitted, reluctantly, 
that she was pretty, in a vivacious way, and very appeal¬ 
ing. Perhaps that was because she was so small and thin, 
and because her face was so mobile. She had strange eyes, 
always changing; they were attractive too, both in mis¬ 
chief and in gravity. 

Nina fished a fly out of her cup. 

“Victim number one. Luckily I’m not a vegetarian. 
How’s Geoffrey, Stephen?” 

“He isn’t,” Stephen answered, selecting a sandwich 
from the dish. “How very timid cucumber can be. You 
bite one end, and it evacuates the sandwich hurriedly at 
the other end.” 

“But why is Geoffrey not?” Nina demanded. 

“He became Norman half-way through the book,” 
Stephen explained. 

“And it was all torn up,” added Elizabeth. 

“How drastic! Still, what a lot of things he can do 
now he’s Norman. Norman could fail to catch the train; 
Geoffrey would have to be there ten minutes before it 
started.” 

“Exactly,” Stephen said. “As Norman he was able 
to jilt Caroline with perfect grace. As Geoffrey he be¬ 
came a cad from that moment.” 

“I don’t see it a bit,” Elizabeth declared. “He’d be a 
cad anyway.” 

“No, not at all. If you capture everyone’s sympathy 
you’re not a cad. Norman does, you see. Naturally.” 

“Just because of his name? Stephen, how silly you 
are!” She said it all laughingly, but she felt that he 
really was silly. 

“What a horrid insult!” Nina said. “Never mind, 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


141 


Stephen, I appreciate the true inwardness of Norman. 
What does Cynny think? Or doesn’t she know?” 

“Of course she does. I notified the whole family in a 
series of telephone calls. Cynny said, Marvellous! he can 
murder Caroline. I hadn’t thought of that. Mater was 
inclined to be upset. She said, Poor dear Geoffrey! I once 
had a canary called Geoffrey. That revelation sealed his 
doom.” 

Nina gave a little spurt of laughter. 

‘ ‘ Oh, how sweet of Aunt Charmian! Something invari¬ 
ably reminds her of something else, delightfully irrele¬ 
vant. ’ ’ 

Elizabeth picked up the milk-jug. 

“The only sane member of the family was Anthony. 
He sent a telegram:—‘It leaves me cold.’ That amused 
me.” 

“Neither you nor Anthony,” Stephen said, “has a soul. 
Nina, d’you remember the day mater had a tea-fight under 
this very tree and Bertie Tyrell withdrew to the bank and 
wrote a poem about introspection?” 

“Oh, lord yes! And read it to Lady Ribblemere.” 
She turned to Elizabeth. “Nobody understood the poem; 
it was all dots. When Bertie got to the last line, which 
was ‘God! I am glad,’ Lady Ribblemere said ‘Dear me!’ 
in a most surprised voice.” 

“Yes,” nodded Stephen, “and then she billowed over 
to Bertie’s wife, and said, ‘Can you tell me who is that 
extraordinary person?’ ” 

“How awful!” Elizabeth interjected, feeling that she 
ought to say something. 

“Well, I don’t know,” pondered Stephen. “If you’re 
Futuristic at a tea-fight you must expect the worst. By 
the way, we must ask the Tyrells down, ’Lisbeth. They’ll 
amuse you.” 

“You’d better not,” said Nina. “Bertie’s got a mar- 


142 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


moset, and he won't go anywhere without it. He brought 
it down to us for the week-end, and it made havoc amongst 
the Saxifraga TJmbrosa 

“The animal showed a considerable amount of discrim¬ 
ination then,” said Stephen. 

Nina gathered up her belongings, and rose. 

“No, it was purely vindictive. It removed the cocka¬ 
too ’s crest. Mother nearly committed suicide. Thank you 
very much for my nice tea, Elizabeth. The next time you 
see me I shall have white kid gloves on. You’ll know what 
that means. We’ll bring Daddy to call on you too, and 
he ’ll walk round the garden, saying, ‘ Charming, charming! 
What induced you to plant the peonies in so unsuitable 
a spot?’ Only he won’t call them peonies, so you’ll be 
none the wiser. Goodbye, both of you! I’ve enjoyed my¬ 
self awfully.” 

“We’ll walk with you to the gate,” Elizabeth said. 

11 1 shan’t,’’ Stephen murmured. “I’m busy.’’ 

“Stephen!” Elizabeth exclaimed, just a little shocked. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


Lady Ribblemere from the Manor was the next to call. 
She filled the drawing-room, or so it seemed to Elizabeth, 
and talked heavily, but kindly, about hardy perennials and 
young ducklings. Then she said, 

“So you went to Florence on your honeymoon. That 
must have been very delightful! The Uffizzi and—and 
that sort of thing. I always think it so good for one to 
travel. One is inclined to become insular, don’t you think? 
But of course when you get to my age you prefer home- 
comforts. And how is Stephen?” 

“Very well, thank you.” Elizabeth wondered how often 
she would have to answer this question. “Hard at work.” 

“Ah, then I will not disturb him!” Lady Ribblemere 
said, rising ponderously. “I will just look in at him and 
say how do you do ? ” 

Feeling entirely helpless, Elizabeth followed her into the 
library. Stephen looked up, and rose, putting down his 
pen. 

“No, don’t get up,” said Lady Ribblemere. “I shall 
feel I am interrupting you if you do. I only popped in 
to see how you were, and to tell you how pleased we all 
are to see you back again, with your wife.” 

Stephen shook hands, saying that Lady Ribblemere was 
very kind. 

“And how is your dear mother?” she went on. “It is 
quite an age since I saw her.” 

“She’s flourishing, thank you,” Stephen answered. 
“Won’t you sit down?” 

“No, I really mustn’t stay a moment,” she said, choosing 
143 


144 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


the sofa. “I was on my way out when I decided to look 
in on you. And how is Cynthia?” 

‘‘She’s suffering from a slight cold at the moment, but 
it’s nothing much,” Stephen answered. 

“Ah, I am sorry to hear that. It is to be hoped the 
dear baby won’t catch it. How is the baby?” 

Elizabeth, seated beside her, replied to this question. 

“So bonny,” she said. “Cynthia writes that he is learn¬ 
ing to walk. Isn’t he forward?” 

Lady Ribblemere looked rather concerned, and shook 
her head so that the plumes in her enormous hat nodded 
like a row of mandarins. 

“I do not think that Cynthia should allow him to walk 
yet,” she said. “I don’t believe in forcing children. 
None of mine walked at his age. Dear me, I have not 
asked after Mr. Ruthven! I hope he is well ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, quite, thank you. I believe they are both going 
to Scotland next month.” 

“That will be very nice, I am sure. I used to go to Scot¬ 
land myself in my husband’s shooting days. Dear me, 
is that your spaniel I see under the table? So you still 
have her! Come along, little doggy! Come along!” 

Flo retired further under the table. 

“How is Sir George?” asked Stephen, catching Eliza¬ 
beth’s eye as he said it. 

“Thank you, he is as well as can be expected. I always 
say that when you pass the age of fifty it is not to be sup¬ 
posed that you will feel the same as you did at thirty.” 

“Er—no,” said Stephen. 

Lady Ribblemere’s glance wandered round the room. 

“Is that your new book I see on the table?” 

“The beginning of it,” Stephen smiled. 

“How very interesting! Dear me, I am sure no one 
would have said when you were a little boy that you would 
grow into a writer! I think I must really try and read 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


145 


one of your novels. I remember my husband was very 
pleased with them, but, as you know, I seldom read fiction 
nowadays. At my age one feels that it is rather waste of 
time.” She turned to Elizabeth. “It must be very in¬ 
teresting to have a writer for a husband. I expect you 
read his books together?” 

N-no, said Elizabeth. * ‘I am hoping to be allowed 
to see this one soon.” 

You should read it to her, Stephen. She would be able 
to help you. And now I must really be going. Tell me, 
Stephen, is that a new photograph of little Christopher I 
see on the mantelpiece ? ’ ’ 

Stephen handed it to her. 

11 Cynthia sent it to me a few days ago. He’s growing 
quite large, isn’t he?” 

Lady Ribblemere began to fumble in her lap for her 
lorgnettes. Through them she stared at the photograph. 

“Dear me, yes! He’s very like Mr. Ruthven, don’t you 
think? Not at all like Cynthia, the dear little man. 
Yes, that is very interesting. If I remember rightly, you 
are his godfather?” 

“I am. It’s an onerous position.” 

“Ah, I daresay,” Lady Ribblemere said vaguely. “It 
seems incredible that Cynthia should have a child of her 
own. Time flies indeed. Which reminds me that I must 
be going.” She heaved herself out of the sofa. “No, do 
not trouble to escort me to the gate, Stephen. I shall feel 
that I am interrupting you in your work. You and your 
wife must come up to dine with us one evening. Perhaps 
the Yicar and Mrs. Edmondston would come too. I must 
arrange it. Goodbye, Mrs. Ramsay, or may I call you 
Elizabeth? We have had a delightful little talk. I wish 
you would not come with me, Stephen; I am sure you are 
very busy.” Her voice died away in the passage; Eliza¬ 
beth drew a deep breath, and started to giggle. 


146 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


When Stephen came back he was scowling; Elizabeth be¬ 
came grave at once. 

“Damn the woman!” snapped Stephen. “What on 
earth did you bring her in here for ?” 

Elizabeth shrank slightly from the roughness of his 
voice. 

“I didn’t. She—just came. I couldn’t help it.” 

“Good lord, I should think you might have raked up 
some excuse! Infernal old wind-bag. Of course that’s 
the end of my work for to-day.” 

“Really, Stephen, I don’t see why you need be so angry 
about it!” Elizabeth said, hurt. “After all, she didn’t 
stay long, and she was very kind and nice.” 

Stephen groaned. 

“Good God, can’t you understand that a thing like that’s 
enough to put me off for a week?” 

“No, I can’t,” Elizabeth said, angry in her turn. “And 
anyway I’m not going to be talked to like that! Anyone 
would think it was my fault! ’ ’ 

“Well, I do think you might have said that I was out, 
or ill, ’ ’ he grumbled. 

“If people take the trouble to call on us, the least you 
can do is to receive them pleasantly, ’ ’ said Elizabeth, quot¬ 
ing largely from Miss Arden. 

* 1 1 have yet to learn that it is the man’s duty to receive 
calls,” Stephen replied sarcastically. “And as for Lady 
Ribblemere—I can’t bear the woman. She’s positively 
rude. Fancy saying that she considered novel-reading 
waste of time! Beastly bad form.” 

“Well, I like her. I think it was very kind of her to 
come and call.” 

“Elizabeth, don’t talk such damned rot! I’m willing 
to admit that she’s kind, but you can’t possibly like her! 
There’s nothing to like.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


147 


“I don’t agree at all. I think you’re very fault-finding 
and quarrelsome.” 

He softened. 

“Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to quarrel with you. 
Pretend that you like Lady Ribblemere, if you want to. 
It doesn’t really matter.” 

She reddened. 

“I am not pretending. Why do you always say that?” 

He put his arm round her waist. 

“Because you do, ’Lisbeth. You know you do.” 

She did not know it, but he had discovered it long ago, 
and it irritated him. For as long as she continued to 
shrink from crude facts, and honesty, there could be no 
real intimacy between them. That he did not quite realise, 
but he could not help feeling that her extreme delicacy 
bordered on prudery. A dozen times a day he made her 
blush. He was at first amused, then slightly impatient. 

“Elizabeth, you really can’t be shy with me!” 

“I don’t think one need talk about such things,” she 
said repressively. 

That always baffled him; he wished he understood her 
better, or had the power to break through her reserve. 
Because she wanted it, he gave her some of his manuscript 
to read. When she had finished he asked her opinion. 
After a tiny pause she said, 

“It’s very good.” 

That drove the artist in him to a frenzy. 

* 1 Good ? Yes, but what else ? How does it strike you ? ’ ’ 

“Oh—I like it—quite!” 

“You mean you don’t like it. Well, why not?” 

“Oh, no, Stephen! Of course I don’t mean that!” 

“My dear girl,” he said sharply, “say what you think, 
for God’s sake, and don’t bother about being polite.” 

“But, Stephen, I— It’s only perhaps that I don’t quite 


148 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


understand some of it. And—and sometimes—I expect 
I’m old-fashioned—isn’t it rather—broad?” 

“It’s perfectly straight-forward, if that’s what you 
mean. What of the style? Do you like it, or not? I 
shouldn’t ask for your criticism if I didn’t want it, Eliz¬ 
abeth.” 

“Oh, the style!” she said, wondering what was the 
proper thing to say about it. “Yes, that’s very good, I 
think.” 

He seemed to shrug his shoulders, then turned away. 
She knew that she had failed him, and was wretched. 

Nina and her parents came to call. Elizabeth liked 
Mrs. Trelawney, who was quiet and full of common-sense. 
Mr. Trelawney did just what his daughter had said he 
would do. He walked with Stephen round the garden, and 
said, Charming! in an absent-minded way many times. 
He offered to send them some cuttings from a rare plant; 
Elizabeth thanked him, and said that she would love to 
have them. When the Trelawneys had departed Stephen 
asked her what on earth she had said that for? 

“Well, what else could I say?” she demanded, wide- 
eyed. 

“Why, that you didn’t really understand horticulture, 
and it would be waste to give his rarities to you.” 

She was aghast. 

“Stephen! But how rude!” 

“No, not a bit. You could have said it so that he would 
have understood perfectly.” 

“I wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for worlds!” 

“They wouldn’t have been hurt. He’s far more likely 
to feel hurt when he sees those cuttings withering in an 
alien soil. For you don’t know anything about ’em, ’Lis- 
beth, and they’re sure to die. Besides which, sooner or 
later he’ll discover that you aren’t a gardener, however 
much you pretend. Then he’ll be annoyed.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


149 


“I had to try to take an interest in his hobby /’ she pro¬ 
tested. It was strange how often she seemed to do the 
wrong thing; strange and sad. 

He laughed, kissing her hair. 

“Yes, but you carried it to excess, darling. I was con¬ 
vulsed with inward amusement when you nodded wisely 
at his botanical terms/ ’ 

Other people called, some nice, some negligible, others 
definitely nasty. Then began the wearisome ordeal of re¬ 
turning calls. To Elizabeth, who had never visited with¬ 
out her aunt, it was a terrifying ceremonial. She was over¬ 
come with nervousness, and could never think of anything 
to say. And«after the calls came invitations, some to tea, 
others to dinner. She preferred the dinner invitations, 
for Stephen was present then, to support her. He re¬ 
fused to accompany her out to tea; he said that his work 
was sufficient excuse. She could not agree; she had al¬ 
ways imagined that a novelist had plenty of spare-time on 
his hands. Stephen seemed to have none. Even when he 
did cease work she knew that he was thinking of his book; 
thinking and planning. It was extraordinary that he 
could be so absorbed so soon after their marriage. She 
feared he was working too hard; when he sat up until 
three and four in the morning she worried, and often went 
downstairs to make him come to bed. 

She would find him in the library, his head bent over 
the paper, his hand travelling fast, across and across. He 
would be dishevelled, totally abstracted, sometimes not 
noticing her entrance. 

11 Stephen dear, do come up to bed!’ ’ she would say 
softly. “I’m sure it isn’t good for you to work so 
late.” 

“All right, darling. In a minute.” 

Sighing she would seat herself on the arm of a chair, 
watching and waiting. The patience she displayed irri- 


150 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


tated him more than any petulance would have done. The 
feeling that she was there preyed upon his nerves; the flow 
of words came less easily, then stopped. In exasperation 
he would fling down his pen. 

‘ ‘ Oh, darling, please don’t sit and wait for me! It wor¬ 
ries me to distraction/’ 

“It worries me to know that you’re sitting up so late,” 
she would answer gravely. 

“Very well, dear; I’ll come.” 

It ended in him sleeping for the time in his dressing- 
room so that he should not disturb her. That showed her 
how great a hold his work had over him. While the mood 
for writing was on him he had no thought for anything 
else, no other passion, no other love. 

But when, reluctantly, he suggested the change, her 
heart leaped within her. Once again she could be private, 
and alone. Only when she slept by herself did she realise 
to the full how she hated to have Stephen with her. She 
had borne it because she had not the courage, morally, to 
protest; she felt now that she could never resume the old 
relations. 

And yet, dual to this feeling, came the wave of jealousy 
whenever Nina visited them. That was often; it seemed 
that Nina was more intimate with this house, and with 
Stephen, than she could ever be. Nina wanted to be 
friends; she wanted Elizabeth to come and see her as often 
as she came to Queen’s Halt. It was not in Elizabeth’s 
nature to do so. She could not be friends with Nina; 
they were not akin, and Nina knew so much. She could 
not even take part in a general conversation when Nina 
was there. She did not understand Nina’s conversation, 
she could not follow her allusions. She tried; she even 
pretended that she recognised some obscure quotation, but 
she knew, miserably, that Nina was not deceived. 

Nina seemed to be necessary to Stephen, too. He had al- 


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ways some question to put to her, some point on which 
he wanted her advice. He read passages to Elizabeth, 
and asked which she preferred. She did not know. When 
Nina came Stephen put them before her, and the result 
was very different. 

“Nina, I want your opinion. This—or this?” 

Then Nina would read, and as soon as she had read she 
knew which variant was best. 

“My dear old Stephen, are you going in for Euphu¬ 
ism ? 7 7 she would say mockingly, flipping one sheet towards 
him. 

It was extraordinary how his face could light up. 

“You think that? Yes, you 7 re right. Good lord, why 
didn’t I see it? 77 

Nina was always ready with her criticism; evidently 
Stephen respected it. Nina would look up from the manu¬ 
script, point to a word and say, 

“I almost think I 7 d prefer the Norman word here, old 
man. You’ve scratched it out, but it’s a nicer rhythm.” 

Sometimes he disagreed, and they would argue; some¬ 
times they would discuss situations in the book which 
Elizabeth thought too frank to be mentioned. And always 
Nina embraced her in the discussion. 

* ‘ Elizabeth, can you convince Stephen that no girl would 
behave as Caroline does with Carlyle?” 

That aspect of it had never struck Elizabeth; she only 
knew that Caroline’s behaviour shocked her. 

“I don’t care for that part of the book, I must say,” she 
answered. 

“No, because it’s false. Norman’s misdemeanours aren’t 
great enough to make her go off with Carlyle, Stephen. 
Do you think so, Elizabeth?” 

“No,” Elizabeth said. “Because Caroline didn’t seem 
to be that sort of girl. I thought at first that she was 
quite nice.” 


152 


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“Elizabeth loves a book full of thoroughly nice people— 
or black-dyed villains,” Stephen said teasingly. 

“So do I, upon occasion. I think you’re in danger of be¬ 
coming a decadent, Stephen. Bilious Byronism. Oh, 
Elizabeth, what a brilliant thought! Isn’t Stephen By- 
ronic ? ’ ’ 

* ‘ I don’t know, ’ ’ Elizabeth said. ‘ ‘ I don’t read Byron. ’ ’ 

‘ 1 Oh, but you should! He’s not at all without merit. ’ ’ 

“I don’t think I should care for his poems,” Elizabeth 
said primly. 

Soon after that she suggested to Stephen that she should 
invite Lawrence and Miss Arden down for the week-end. 

“And perhaps Auntie would stay on longer.” 

It was the last thing in the world that Stephen desired 
just then, and he tried, selfishly, to postpone the invitation. 

“Wouldn’t it be better if we waited until I’m through 
with my book?” he asked, thinking what death to inspira¬ 
tion Lawrence would be. 

“But it would only be for a week-end, Stephen! And 
if Auntie stayed on longer she wouldn’t interfere with 
you.” 

“Just as you like, darling.” 

“Of course, if you don’t want them—” 

“Rot, ’Lisbeth! If you’d like to have them to stay now, 
I’m perfectly agreeable.” 

“I’ll write at once,” she said. 

The invitation was accepted; the visit passed quite pleas¬ 
antly. Stephen laid aside his work from Friday till Mon¬ 
day, and gave himself up to Lawrence. Miss Arden sat 
with Elizabeth in secluded corners, and talked little 
nothings. 

When they had gone, other people, Stephen’s friends, 
began to invite themselves. The Tyrells drifted in quite 
unexpectedly one afternoon; Elizabeth was completely flus¬ 
tered, and somewhat annoyed. Stephen, on the other 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


153 


hand, was delighted. It did not matter to him that the 
visitors’ beds were not aired, or sufficient food provided 
for them. It did not seem to matter much to the Tyrells 
either, who were the maddest, most happy-go-lucky pair 
Elizabeth had ever met, but it drove the poor hostess to a 
frenzy. They dropped cigarette-ash on the carpet, they 
sat up late talking drama, poetry, and art till Elizabeth 
nearly dropped asleep from sheer boredom. Luckily the 
marmoset had met with an accident and died, so she was 
spared that intrusion into her neat home. She wondered 
what Aunt Anne would think could she but see Bertie 
Tyrell cross-legged on the floor, dangerously waving a 
coffee-cup in mid-air the better to point his arguments. 
She could hardly believe that it was really herself who en¬ 
tertained these oddities from another world. How much 
rather would she have held a quiet, sedate tea-party, where 
no guest would talk of Azurism, or Exposition of the Nude, 
or Gothic style of writing. What it was all about she had 
no idea. When she begged enlightenment of Stephen, he 
laughed, and assured her that no one knew, least of all the 
Tyrells. 

4 ‘Are they talking nonsense, then?” she asked, puzzled. 

“Not exactly. They’re striving after something, but 
they don’t yet know what it is. It’s interesting, I think. 
I like to hear them propound their views.” 

“I find them rather boring,” she sighed. 

“Poor little sweetheart! You must just learn to laugh 
at them, as I do. Then they become funny.” 

After the Tyrells came Mrs. Ramsay, with Thomas. 
Elizabeth dreaded a dog-fight, but she was assured that 
Thomas was well acquainted with Hector, and Jerry, and 
Flo. Mrs. Ramsay sprang from her cart into her son’s 
arms, and hugged him. 

“My darlings, I’m so pleased to see you again! How 
beautifully the trees have turned! Elizabeth, does the 


154 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Halt hold an awful fascination for you? It does for me— 
especially when I’m away from it. Dear Nana, I think 
I’ve lost my hat-box. Do you suppose it can have jumped 
out of the car?” 

“No, madam. You’ve left it behind,” Nana said with 
conviction. 

“Perhaps I have. How tiresome! Stephen, have you 
grown, or is it because I haven’t seen you for over a 
month?” 

They took her into the house; she noticed little changes, 
and remarked on them, approvingly. But when Elizabeth 
went with her upstairs she walked straight to Elizabeth’s 
room, and then checked, laughing. 

“How silly of me! Please, where am I to go?” 

“It must seem very funny—for you to come to your 
own home—with me here,” Elizabeth said. “I prepared 
the Blue room for you. I thought that would be nic¬ 
est.” She opened the door for Mrs. Ramsay to pass 
through. 

“My dear, this is positively thrilling!” Mrs. Ramsay 
said. “I’ve never slept here before. Thank you for put¬ 
ting those flowers on the table. Oh, here’s Nana! Nana, 
must I unpack, or will you ? ’ ’ 

“It would be a nice thing if I let you do it, madam! 
If you go along down to tea I’ll see to your things. Have 
you lost your keys, or shall I find them in your hand¬ 
bag?” 

“I don’t know at all,” Mrs. Ramsay said brightly. 
Then she took Elizabeth’s arm, and went out with her. 

After tea she explored the house. When she saw the 
made bed in Stephen’s dressing-room she paused for a 
moment in her flow of conversation, but picked up the 
thread almost immediately. In Elizabeth’s room she pot¬ 
tered about, looking at photographs, and fiddling with the 
ornaments upon the mantelpiece. Suddenly she looked 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


155 


up at Elizabeth, and spoke lightly, yet with anxiety in 
her voice. 

“Darling, don’t you sleep together?” 

Elizabeth blushed hotly. 

“It’s—Stephen thought—while he’s writing—I mean, 
he sits up so late. He was afraid it—it disturbed me. 
It’s only—for a time.” 

“Yes, of course. I see. You are happy, aren’t you, 
Elizabeth ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, I’m very happy,” Elizabeth said. “Did Stephen 
tell you that Father and Auntie came to stay with us?” 

“No, but how jolly! By the way, has everybody called? 
Oh, and did Lady Ribblemere ask after all the family in 
turn?” 

Elizabeth smiled. 

“Yes. I wanted to laugh rather, but she was really very 
kind.” 

“She’s quite a dear, only so dreadfully tedious. I must 
go and see her, I think. I heard that the Tyrells came on 
a surprise-visit! What a shock for you. I always go to 
bed early when they stay with me.” 

“I didn’t like to do that,” said Elizabeth. “I—Mr. 
Tyrell has some very—queer ideas.” 

“Most immoral, my dear. I hope you told him so. 
Nothing pleases him more. Next time you see him you’ll 
find that he has dropped Free Love and taken up Chris¬ 
tian Science. So volatile. No, I don’t mean that. What 
do I mean? Let’s go and ask Stephen.” 

“I expect he’s writing,” Elizabeth warned her. 

“Then he’ll have to stop.” Away went Mrs. Ramsay, 
downstairs to the library, with Elizabeth at her heels. 
“Stephen, stop writing and help me!” 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“I want to know what the word is I want instead of 
volatile.” 


156 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


He laughed. 

11 Context, please.’’ 

“My dear, I’ve forgotten what it was. Elizabeth, do 
come to the rescue! ’ ’ 

Elizabeth explained, much to Mrs. Ramsay’s admi¬ 
ration. 

“You probably meant versatile,” said Stephen. “Not 
that it fits at all.” 

“Doesn’t it, Stephen? Never mind, let’s pretend that 
it does. I’m afraid I’m disturbing you, as Lady Ribble- 
mere would say. I’d like to see the fowls, please, Eliz¬ 
abeth.” 

When she had thoroughly inspected everything, Mrs. 
Ramsay (?ame to the conclusion that Elizabeth was an ex¬ 
cellent housekeeper, and said so. 

“I try to be,” Elizabeth said, warming under the praise. 
“But it’s difficult sometimes. People drop in without any 
warning—and things like that.” 

“Don’t let it worry you,” Mrs. Ramsay advised. “It’s 
a mistake. I di4, when I was first married, but I grew out 
of it. One has to do a lot of adapting.” 

“Yes,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Yes—one has.” 

“If ever you want advice—or help,’*’ Mrs. Ramsay went 
on, “come to me. Will you?” 

“It’s—it’s very kind of you—” Elizabeth stammered. 

“No, not a bit. Generally I’m hopelessly unpractical, 
but I do know a great many things about the Ramsays. 
Of course, if you had a mother of your own, you wouldn’t 
need me. But as it is—when—I mean, if—you get in a 
fix—or you want to talk to someone—come to me. I’m 
quite safe.” 

“Thank you very much indeed,” Elizabeth said. “I 
will.” 

Mrs. Ramsay stayed at Queen’s Halt for a week, and 
before she left she went for a long walk with Stephen, 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


157 


through the woods. Little by little she coaxed him to talk 
to her of Elizabeth, and of himself. 

“I don’t know, mater. I just—don’t—know,” he said 
in answer to her question, Were they happy? “I—love 
Elizabeth, you see. I—I don’t think I could live without 
her. Only, sometimes—I wonder— She’s such a babe 
still. It’s something I can’t talk about, mater. It’s be¬ 
tween us two alone.” 

“Yes, darling. I don’t want you to try to talk about it. 
Only, Stephen, don’t be too absorbed in your book. That’s 
only a thing. Elizabeth’s more than that.” 

“Oh, come now, mater, I can’t be expected to chuck 
work just because I’m married! Other men have to be 
away all day at an office.” 

“I know, dear. But they come away from their work, 
and don’t have to sit up until the small hours at it.” 

He was silent for a moment. 

“I do my best work at night, mater. You know that. 
And there are weeks when I don’t touch a pen from one 
day’s end to another.” 

“My dear, if you’re selfish in refusing to—to adapt your¬ 
self to Elizabeth, it’s unfair to her. I think you’ve got 
a long way to go—both of you.” 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


Towards the end of October Stephen’s pen began to run 
dry; he grew restless, short-tempered, and finally decided 
that he would give up attempting to write for a few weeks. 
So the manuscript was locked in a drawer, and Stephen 
emerged from his absorption. He suggested that they 
should go to London for a time; Elizabeth was only too 
delighted. She had contrived to amuse herself success¬ 
fully, with the house and the garden, and the car, which she 
had learned to drive, but these were, after all, only 
Things. She longed to see her family again, and London; 
she longed too to be free from Queen’s Halt and its tradi¬ 
tions just for a short breathing space, and to escape from 
Nina, with her abstruse witticisms, and flood of reminis¬ 
cence. Those reminiscences galled Elizabeth, but she had 
not the courage to say so. Sooner or later, when Stephen 
and Nina were together, would crop up those deadly words, 
Do you remember? To the third person who did not re¬ 
member, who did not know, or want to know, the people 
mentioned, who saw no humour in the old jokes and catch¬ 
words, the reminiscences were not only boring, but unbe¬ 
lievably annoying. They implied a close intimacy between 
Stephen and Nina, an age-long friendship, and a perfect 
understanding. 

So Elizabeth was glad to leave Queen’s Halt, even though 
it meant hotel life for a spell. That did not seem to mat¬ 
ter, somehow, especially since they were to have a private 
sitting-room. The sitting-room was Stephen’s suggestion: 
he thought she would not care to entertain her friends in 
the public lounge. In little things like that which had to 

158 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


159 


do with her comfort and well-being, he was consideration 
itself. She realised that she had still only to mention a 
wish. If it were in his power to do so, he would grant it 
at once. 

The Ardens welcomed Elizabeth to town with open arms; 
she was often at the Boltons, trying to feel that the old 
life was not closed to her. But it was closed, and she 
knew it. It was left far behind, just as far behind as the 
new life was far ahead. 

She was pleased to see Sarah again. Sarah was going to 
Switzerland for winter-sports; it was fun to help choose 
the clothes she would need. She and Sarah shopped to¬ 
gether, and went to picture-galleries while Stephen held 
long business interviews with his agent, and other people. 
Elizabeth was not interested in business; she did not want 
to know that Stephen had sold his Rubber shares and was 
doing a little flutter in Oil; she was not really interested 
to hear that he had changed his publisher. She did not 
appreciate the significance of publishers. 

Cynthia and Anthony had returned from Scotland, and 
Cynthia was making a determined effort to become inti¬ 
mate with Elizabeth. Elizabeth wished that she would 
not; Mrs. Ramsay she had come to love; Cynthia she felt 
she could never love. 

“What’s Stephen’s book like?” Cynthia asked. “The 
institution of Norman was a splash of genius.” 

“He’s only done half,” Elizabeth answered. “It’s 
clever, I think.” 

“Yes, cleverness is his besetting sin,” Cynthia said. 
“That, and facility.” 

Elizabeth did not quite understand. 

“Facility? But—” 

‘ ‘ You don’t agree ? I think he writes too easily. Nicely 
balanced sentences trickle off his pen, and he doesn’t have 
to prune or re-write.” 


160 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“I should have thought that that was an advantage.’’ 

“From the viewpoint of celerity, undoubtedly,” Cynthia 
said curtly. 

That was how Cynthia puzzled you. She said things 
that you felt to be clever, or apt, yet that you could not 
understand. Elizabeth, instead of meeting bluntness with 
bluntness, would nod wisely, and never say in frankness, 
I don’t understand; please explain. She hoped all the 
time that no one would perceive her ignorance, or think 
her dull and stupid. 

She was rather surprised to find that with her own family 
she could talk, quite brightly, rather like Stephen, or Nina. 
Lawrence said again that she had blossomed forth. With 
him she felt that she had; with her husband, and his 
family, the old reticence and nervousness returned. 

At a subscription dance to which she and Stephen, and 
the Ruthvens went, she met Wendell. 

Wendell was tall, and dark, with very soft brown eyes, 
and a smiling face. Stephen, when he was dancing with 
Elizabeth, saw him, and exclaimed. 

4 ‘ Hullo! There’s old Wendell! ’ ’ 

i ‘ Who is he ? ” Elizabeth asked. 

“Chap who was in my battalion out in Flanders. Very 
cheery.” He piloted Elizabeth across the room, and man¬ 
aged to attract Wendell’s attention. After the dance Wen¬ 
dell came to the Ramsay table, and Stephen introduced 
him to Elizabeth. He looked at her in admiration; Stephen 
said that he must come to dinner with them one night. 

“I’d love to!” Wendell said eagerly. “Topping to 
meet you again!” 

Elizabeth was at her best in moments like these. She 
smiled, and endorsed Stephen’s invitation, and said that 
she would write and suggest a day. Wendell thanked her 
and said that it was awfully good of her. Then he had to 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


161 


hurry back to his own party, and they did not speak to 
him again that evening. 

He came to dine with them later in the week, alone, and 
Elizabeth liked him. He was gay, and he made jokes that 
she could follow. She wondered rather what Stephen 
found attractive in him, for he was certainly not particu¬ 
larly clever, and quite ignorant of matters literary. He 
and Stephen “talked War,” and Elizabeth listened with 
interest. That type of reminiscence was not galling, but 
amusing. Then, too, Wendell evidently thought her charm¬ 
ing. She read the admiration in his eyes, and expanded 
to it. She was at her best, and she knew that she was be¬ 
ing a good hostess for once. 

“I say, Mrs. Ramsay, isn’t it a bit strenuous being mar¬ 
ried to a gilded novelist? D’you have to make learned 
remarks about his books? Jolly fatiguing, what?” 

“Oh, no!” she answered, laughing. “I don’t know 
enough about novel-writing to criticise. All I do is to 
drag him away from his work to come and talk to me.’’ 

“Shouldn’t think he needs much dragging,” Wendell 
said. 

Elizabeth dimpled. 

“Oh yes, he does! While he’s writing he hasn’t any 
use for me. I think he’s in love with his heroine—I mean, 
the girl in his book.” 

“What an unblushing lie!” Stephen remarked. 

“P’raps his heroine is you,” suggested Wendell. 

“Me? Good gracious, no! She’s a dreadful creature!” 

Then they all laughed, Elizabeth too, when she realized 
what she had said. 

They went into the billiard-room after dinner, and as 
no one else was there, Elizabeth let Stephen and Wendell 
teach her how to play. She enjoyed that, even when she 
miscued three times in succession. Stephen said, Rotten! 


162 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Wendell .told him to shut up. He assured Elizabeth that 
she was learning fast, and would make a fine player. They 
played three-handed billiards, and Wendell had Elizabeth 
as his partner. 

“As a handicap?” she asked, smiling. 

“Not much! Come on, Mrs. Ramsay, we’ll have to pull 
our socks up with a vengeance. Stephen’s played the game 
before.” 

He was a delightful partner; he coached her zealously, 
in spite of a running fire of commentary from Stephen. 

“Now then, Mrs. Ramsay, we’ve got him on toast. If 
you can cannon off the white on to that cushion, with just 
a leetle left-hand side on, you’ll—” 

“If you tell her to put side on she won’t hit it at all,” 
Stephen interrupted. 

“Don’t be so rude!” Elizabeth protested. “Go on, Mr. 
Wendell, I’m listening.” 

“Well, you want to hit the white very nearly half-ball, 
then you’ll cannon off this cushion on to the red.” 

“Not she,” said Stephen. “Look here, darling! aim to 
hit the red half-ball—don’t bother about any side—and 
the chances are you’ll go into the middle pocket.” 

“Shut up, Stephen; you’re muddling me. Will you 
mind if I miss this, Mr. Wendell?” 

“No, rather not. Yes, that’s right. Let your cue 
follow.” 

Of course she did miss the shot, and Stephen said, I told 
you so. Wendell was more complimentary. 

“Jolly good attempt. Just hadn’t got legs enough. 
Hullo, look at old Stephen! Billiards by One Who Knows. 
Well, let’s see what we can do with it.” 

They played until two men who were staying in the hotel 
came in. Then Elizabeth put up her cue, and sat down to 
watch. 

Decidedly the evening was a success. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


163 


After that they saw Wendell often. He asked them to 
dine with him, and go to a theatre. The piece was a revue, 
but Elizabeth enjoyed every moment of it. They went to 
supper afterwards at the Savoy, a thing Elizabeth had 
never done before. 

“You like Wendell?” Stephen asked her, later. 

“Oh, yes! Don’t you?” she replied. 

“Quite a good chap. We must get him to come down 
to the Halt some time or other. Did I hear you say you 
were going with him to Twickenham ? ’ ’ 

“He did ask me,” she admitted. “I’ve never seen a 
Rugger-match. Do you mind if I go, Stephen?” 

“Mind? Good lord, no, darling! Why should I?” 

She went with Wendell, several times. He made one 
of the party Stephen got up to go to Sandown Park; he 
formed a habit of ringing up many times in the week to 
see whether the Ramsays couldn’t come along with him 
to a show that night, or a motor-drive that afternoon. 
Easily, almost unconsciously, he and Elizabeth drifted into 
close friendship. Christian names came naturally; it was 
as though she had known Wendell all her life. In con¬ 
versation with him no mental effort was required; some¬ 
times, even, she felt herself to be intellectually his superior. 
That was rather a refreshing change. It was she who sug¬ 
gested that he should visit them at the Halt. He jumped 
at the invitation. 

“I say, how topping! Yes, I’d love to. Please don’t 
forget, Betty, or I shall be compelled to remind you!” 

“No, I won’t forget,” she promised. “Only I’m afraid 
it will be rather dull for you. We haven’t got a hard 
court, but there are some golf-links quite near to us.” 

“You’ll take me round while Stephen mugs over his 
book,” he said. 

“Oh, I can hardly play at all! I'm awfully stupid at 
games, Charles.” 


164 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


’“Rot! I bet you can play well enough really. You’re 
so frightfully modest, that’s all.” 

Aunt Anne met Wendell one afternoon when she came 
unexpectedly to see her niece. Wendell was with Eliza¬ 
beth, having tea; Stephen had gone out to interview his 
typist. 

Miss Arden was rather surprised to find a strange man 
with Elizabeth, surprised and rather disapproving. 

“Oh, Auntie dear, how lovely to see you! This is Mr. 
Wendell. Charles, this is my aunt, Miss Arden.” 

Wendell did not stay very long, and as soon as he had 
gone, Miss Arden asked, 

“My dear, who is that young man?” 

“A friend of Stephen, Auntie. I like him very much; 
he’s so energetic and cheery.” 

“Does Stephen know that you entertain him in his 
absence?” 

Elizabeth stiffened, inwardly furious at her aunt’s in¬ 
terference. 

“Of course Stephen knows. I’m—I’m not a child, 
Auntie.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, if Stephen knows—! ’ ’ Miss Arden said, trying to 
feel relieved. But she mentioned the occurrence to Law¬ 
rence that night, and said that she hoped that it was all 
right. 

Lawrence pooh-poohed her misgivings. It was only 
natural that his little girl should have men-friends. Why, 
her marriage itself enabled her to do so! 

“Yes, but—I’ve wondered—sometimes—whether every¬ 
thing is—quite as it should be—between Stephen and Eliz¬ 
abeth.” 

“Nonsense, my dear Anne, nonsense! I never saw a 
more devoted couple! All your imagination! And if 
it weren’t, I for one know Elizabeth too well to suspect her 
of carrying on an intrigue with another man! ’ ’ 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


165 


11 Lawrence! How can yon ? I never dreamed of such 
a thing! Only—sometimes—a friendship like that—isn’t 
very wise.” 

“No one nowadays thinks anything of a platonic friend¬ 
ship,” Lawrence said loftily. “It’s perfectly usual and 
natural.” 

Miss Arden rose to leave the room. But before she went 
she delivered a Parthian shot. 

“I don’t believe there’s any such thing as platonic 
friendship,” she said flatly. 

She was not alone in her belief, or her disapproval. 
Cynthia had seen Wendell. On many occasions she had 
been included in the parties of which he was a member, 
and she realised that Elizabeth liked him more than she 
knew. Having come to the conclusion that Elizabeth 
neither loved nor understood Stephen, Cynthia thought 
her friendship with a man of Wendell’s calibre danger¬ 
ous. Inwardly she raged, for she felt herself to be im¬ 
potent. Elizabeth did not like her; therefore she would 
not be advised by her. It was equally impossible to drop 
a word of warning in Stephen’s ear. That, she knew, 
would be disastrous, almost criminal. Philosophically she 
thought, If Stephen chooses to be a blind fool, he must 
take the consequences. To Anthony, however, she spoke 
her mind, characteristically. 

“I do not like the Tertium Quid,” she drawled, over 
Christopher’s curly head. 

Anthony looked up. 

“What?” 

“Kipling,” said Cynthia. 

“Yes, I know. Who?” 

“The treacle-eyed Wendell.” 

Anthony was interested, and put down his book. 

“Really? But why Tertium Quid?” 

Cynthia addressed her son. 


166 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“My cherub, will you be stupid, like your father, when 
you grow up ? I love stupid men. ’ ’ 

Christopher grinned cheerfully, and said Dad-dad-dad. 

“I don’t see it, Cynny,” Anthony said. 

“I know you don’t, but it’s none the less obvious. The 
treacle-eyed one has found the soft spot in Elizabeth’s 
heart.” 

“D’you honestly think that, Cynny? He doesn’t shine 
much beside Stephen.” 

“No matter. He admires, he adulates. What more 
does Elizabeth want?” 

“That’s unfair, Cynthia. Beastly unfair.” 

“My dear, I shall begin to be jealous of Elizabeth soon.” 

He smiled. 

“I like her, Cyn. Probably because I’m stupid. I 
think she’s a thoroughly nice little thing. You know, 
Stephen’s n\)t all joy, if you have to live with him.” 

“No. He wanted a very different wife.” 

“I’m not so sure. I know you and Mater had set your 
hearts on Nina, but I always thought you were wrong.” 

11 Nina, or someone like her. Someone who had the same 
interests as Stephen. Someone brainy.” 

Anthony began to knock his pipe out. 

“Funny how you clever women go off the rails,” he 
remarked. “Take a simple example. Ourselves. I don’t 
know a darn thing about verse; I can’t grasp mysticism, 
and I loathe William Morris. What about it?” 

Cynthia threw up her hand. 

“Yes. Touchee. Perhaps we’re exceptional.” 

“Not likely. If Stephen had married Nina they’d have 
quarrelled from morn till night. Each one striving to go 
one better than the other.” 

Cynthia rested her cheek against Christopher’s little 
round head. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


167 


“You may be right. You often are. But I can’t be¬ 
lieve that Stephen’s marriage is a success.” 

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be—eventually,” said 
Anthony. 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


The visit to town lasted until the New Year. Stephen 
had wished to go back to Queen’s Halt at the end of 
November, but when he saw how much Elizabeth was en¬ 
joying this time in London, of his own free will he sug¬ 
gested that they should lengthen their stay. They spent 
Christmas with the Ardens, and Stephen bore it well, on 
the whole. When it was over he said that another time 
he thought that they would either go abroad, or invite 
friends to the Halt. That was what he felt about Christ¬ 
mas with the Ardens. 

Stephen began to grow tired of Wendell. 

“That chap’s always hanging round us,” he said one 
day. 

Elizabeth looked up quickly. 

“Don’t you like him, Stephen?” 

“Fairly. I get a bit bored with him. Don’t you? 
Rather vapid, but quite a cheery sort of blighter.” 

“I’m rather sorry for him,” Elizabeth said. “He 
doesn’t seem to have any people, or anywhere much to go 
to.” 

“Seems to have this place,” he remarked humorously. 
“I’m always falling over him.’’ 

“Well, shall we not ask him to come so often?” she 
said. “If he bores you—” 

“Oh no, darling! It’s not as bad as that. If he amuses 
you, and you like him, why should we choke him off?” 

“He does amuse me,” she said. “I think he’s good 
fun.” 

“All right, then. Long live Charles Wendell. I sup- 
168 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


169 


pose we ought to ask him to join our theatre party next 
week. We owe him an invitation. Don’t we?” 

“Do we? Oh yes! The party he got up at Claridges. 
That was awfully jolly, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes. I didn’t care much for the stray girl who came 
with the Parchetts, but otherwise it was a good show. 
Ring him up and ask him for next week. Or I will, if 
you like.” 

“I’d rather you did,” she said. 

The theatre-party dined first at the Berkeley. The 
Ruthvens were present, and Sarah, and Cynthia was 
rather short with Wendell. Anthony, however, was as 
pleasant as ever. He sat on one side of Elizabeth, Wendell 
on the other. Elizabeth thought that Anthony was a dar¬ 
ling. She could not understand why he had married 
Cynthia. Elizabeth and the two men talked airily of noth¬ 
ing ; Stephen and Sarah and Cynthia discussed Galsworthy 
and Conrad. Occasionally conversation became general, 
but the party split most naturally into two. 

At the theatre Wendell sat next to Elizabeth, and whis¬ 
pered to her, 

“Stephen’s sister—jolly clever an’ all that, but a bit 
alarming, what?” 

She agreed whole-heartedly, but disloyalty was not one 
of her failings. 

“She wants knowing,” was all she said. 

“Oh, quite, quite!” he answered hurriedly. 

After the theatre they went back to the Ramsays’ hotel 
for supper, and Wendell asked Cynthia if she did not 
think the play jolly good. Cynthia said, Spasmodically. 

“Rather outspoken, of course,” he said. “Personally 
I like to hear a spade called a spade, though.” 

“Undoubtedly,” Cynthia replied, “but it is not always 
necessary to call it a ‘bloody shovel.’ ” 

That was awful of Cynthia; even Stephen looked an- 


170 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


noyed. Elizabeth began to talk quickly about the electric- 
light signs in Piccadilly Circus. 

“Cyn, you are the limit,’’ Stephen told her, aside. 

4 ‘Sorry. Treacle-eyes arouse the worst in me.” 

Stephen’s shoulders began to shake. 

“Apt little devil! I never noticed them till you men¬ 
tioned it.” 

“You’re often rather blind,” said Cynthia calmly. 

A few days later, Mr. Hengist, who had been abroad on 
business, returned, and lunched with Stephen at his club. 
He went on afterwards to see Elizabeth, and found her 
sewing in her private room. 

“Well, child?” he said. 

Elizabeth jumped up. 

“Mr. Hengist! How nice of you to come! Did Stephen 
bring you?” 

He kissed her, clumsily. 

“No; he went on to the City. How are you, my dear?” 

“Very well indeed, thanks,” she answered. “And 
you?” 

“Not so young as I was. Are you reading this?” He 
picked up a book from the table. 

“No; Stephen is. I can’t get on with Yeats.” 

“A pity,” he said. “Still reading Victoria Cross and 
Charles Garvice?” 

“Oh, I never did!” she protested. “How unfair! 
Anyway, I shouldn’t dare to with Stephen in the offing. 
The cigarettes are in that box at your elbow. Do have 
one! ’ ’ 

“I’d rather have a pipe, if you don’t mind the smell of 
it.” 

She laughed at him. 

“You know I don’t mind! You’re very polite to me all 
at once.” 

His eyes twinkled. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


171 


“It’s a nice change, isn’t it? It’ll wear off, Elizabeth. 
I’m shy just at the moment. How do you like Stephen 
now you’re married to him?” 

‘‘Very much, thank you,” she smiled. “How do you 
like him?” 

“I always did. I think he’s a man in a thousand.” 

She opened her eyes at that. 

“Do you? Why?” 

“To have put up with you all this time,” he parried. 
“Tell me about your home. I don’t trust your father’s 
description.” 

“It’s perfectly lovely,” she answered. “Tudor, you 
know, with an enchanting garden. Will you come down 
to stay with us in the spring?” 

“Certainly, if you ask me. And don’t invite me to 
come when your father and aunt are with you. I see them 
any day of the week.” 

It was just what she had intended to do; already she 
had begun to plan. 

“Not? But— Anyone would think you didn’t like 
them!” 

“Your aunt and I don’t hit it off very well, as you 
know. I’d rather come alone to see you.” 

She did not quite know what to say. She had known 
that Miss Arden did not always approve of Mr. Hengist, 
but it had never occurred to her that Mr. Hengist did not 
like her aunt. She decided to change the subject. 

“I saw my first Rugger-match just lately,” she said. 
“A friend of Stephen’s took me. It was so exciting.” 

Mr. Hengist’s eyes gleamed suddenly, and he took his 
pipe out of his mouth. 

“Still at it, Elizabeth,” he said drily. 

She did not understand at all. She was glad that the 
page-boy came in at that moment. Mr. Hengist was so 
queer. 


172 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


The page told her that Wendell had called to see her. 
She said, “Ask him to come up, please/’ and turned once 
more to Mr. Hengist. 

“Funnily enough it was Mr. Wendell who took me to 
Twickenham. He was with Stephen at the Front.” 

“Oh, really?” said Mr. Hengist, politely but not with 
any great show of interest. 

Wendell came in; mentally Mr. Hengist said, Dresses 
too well; don’t like his eyes. 

“Hullo, Charles!” Elizabeth said vivaciously. “How 
nice of you to come and see me! Mr. Hengist, may I in¬ 
troduce Mr. Wendell?” 

Both men murmured something inaudible. 

“Look here, Betty, what I really came round for was 
to ask you if you’d care to run out with me in the car and 
have tea somewhere. Topping day, an’ all that. If you 
wrap up well don’t you know ... ?” 

“It’s very kind of you, Charles, but I’m afraid I can’t. 
Stay and have tea here instead. Stephen will be in very 
soon.” 

Mr. Hengist rose. 

“Don’t refuse on my account,” he said. “I must be 
going. I only just dropped in to see you.” 

“Oh, don’t go!” she cried. “I should so like you to 
stop to tea! I can go motoring with Charles any day of 
the week!” 

Mr. Hengist thought, Can you indeed? but aloud he re¬ 
peated that he must go. 

On the way home he did some hard thinking. He had 
never seen Elizabeth so sprightly, or so coquettish. And 
all for a man who dressed too well. 

“Gaiety male chorus,” said Mr. Hengist to a lamp-post. 

But in the first week of January Stephen took Elizabeth 
home, and left Wendell with no more than a casual invita¬ 
tion to come and visit them some time or other. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


173 


At Queen’s Halt Stephen, whose fingers had itched for 
a pen during the past weeks, drew forth his manuscript 
and set to work on it once more. Elizabeth tried to read 
William Morris, curled up beside the fire. Outside every¬ 
thing was damp and cold, the garden bare, the trees gaunt 
and shimmering against a grey sky. 

The wonder of it was that Stephen could see beauty even 
in this dripping landscape. Elizabeth could not; she could 
only see that it was dreary and cold. The beds, stripped 
of their flowers, depressed her; the sky above was uni¬ 
formly drab, lowering and chill. 

Lady Ribblemere invited her to Afternoon Bridge. 
Elizabeth refused the invitation, saying that she did not 
really play. Lady Ribblemere said, Never mind, we are 
none of us good. In a misguided moment Elizabeth went. 
She had always absented herself from her aunt’s bridge- 
parties ; she did not know the evil spell which Bridge casts 
over people; she had no idea that Bridge could transform 
a kindly, good-natured woman into a shrewish harpy. She 
was appalled to see how polish and good manners fell from 
Lady Ribblemere and her guests. 

They cut for partners; everyone smiled and was polite. 
Elizabeth said nervously that she must warn them that 
she was a beginner. They were so encouraging that 
she took heart. Her partner was Mrs. Edmondston, the 
Vicar’s wife. 

As soon as the hands were dealt round an air of gloom, 
of despair, and of suspicious secrecy descended on the 
three other women. Lady Ribblemere said, in an Oh-if-I- 
mus£-declare voice, One spade. 

Then Elizabeth said, No, in quite the wrong tone of 
voice. She discovered soon that if you said No, you must 
say it wearily, and as though you were bored and wanted 
to stop playing and go home. 

Mrs. Ffolliot, who had seemed at first a gay little woman 


174 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


with laughing eyes, also said No, very crossly. Eliza¬ 
beth’s partner shrugged and proclaimed, One No Trump. 
Everyone said No to that, which made Mrs. Edmondston 
look more annoyed than ever. The game was played; that 
was easy. The worst came afterwards, when Mrs. Ed¬ 
mondston told Elizabeth that she had absolutely given the 
game away with that idiotic lead in the second round. 

“I should have thought you must have known from my 
lead that I had the ace, queen, knave!” she snapped. 

Elizabeth could only falter, I’m sorry. The worst thing 
of all, though, was when, at the end of the three rubbers, 
she found herself a winner. Mrs. Edmondston was 
pleased; their opponents were not. 

‘ 4 Never seen such cards!” Mrs. Ffolliot exclaimed peev¬ 
ishly. “Why, in that last hand I’d hardly one court card! 
Even then if you hadn’t thrown away your king, Lady 
Ribblemere, we might have had a chance.” 

“You over called my hand in the previous round,” Lady 
Ribblemere retorted with dignity. “But our opponents 
had all the luck. I always think it so strange how the luck 
favours one side. Really, a very poor game to-day. So 
unequal. Dear me, all those honours, Mrs. Edmondston? 
I do not recollect— Oh, no doubt you are right! Yes, a 
very poor game.” 

Yet all Elizabeth said to Stephen was, I didn’t enjoy it 
very much. 

That was the end of her career as a Bridge Player; 
thereafter she steadfastly refused all invitations; it was 
too alarming, and too unpleasant. 

Stephen still occupied the bed in his dressing-room; a 
slight attack of influenza furnished Elizabeth with an ex¬ 
cuse to keep him there. She began to dread the finish of 
his book; nothing would serve her as an excuse then. She 
did not know what she would do; she dared not think of 
that. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


175 


Nina was more often than ever at Queen’s Halt, for she 
too was writing a book. Elizabeth felt that it was purely 
competitive, or perhaps just a reason to come and talk to 
Stephen. Nina stood on no ceremony; she never rang the 
front-door hell, hut walked straight into the hall and 
shouted to Elizabeth, or to Stephen. After all, she 
thought, it was her house, not Nina’s, and she had not 
asked her to treat it as her own. 

Nina insisted on reading chapters to Stephen. Eliza¬ 
beth listened in growing bewilderment, to the haze of 
words. To her they were meaningless, sometimes even 
Stephen could not understand them. 

“Look here, what is this supposed to be?” he demanded 
once. “Burlesque, tragedy, or satire?” 

“What do you think?” Nina asked. 

“Good lord, I don’t know! Cut out the talk and get 
down to facts. If only you wouldn’t try and be so 
damned clever in every second sentence!” 

“You don’t like it?” Nina became defensive, ready to 
fight. 

“Oh yes, parts of it! I can’t stand that maunder¬ 
ing Edwin-person, though. Mixture of Voltaire and 
Destoievsky. ” 

“I believe I have been influenced by the Russian school.” 

“Judging by the morbidity I should say you have. 
Come off the roof, Nina, and leave the Russians alone, God 
help them!” 

Then they would argue, banteringly, intimately, till 
Elizabeth could have screamed. Sometimes Nina grew 
heated over the argument, furious with Stephen for his 
imperturbable teasing. Then he would shake her, or pinch 
her nose, and call her a silly little ass, and tell her to shut 
up. 

“What do you think of the blasted book?” he asked 
Elizabeth, when Nina had departed. 


176 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


‘ ‘I do wish you wouldn’t use such language, Stephen. I 
daresay the book is all right, but I get very tired of hear¬ 
ing nothing but books, books, books all day long.” 

He was hurt by the acidity in her voice, and drew back. 

“Sorry if I’ve bored you,” he said. 

“Oh, I don’t object to hearing ‘book’ from you!” she 
said. 

“Thanks very much,” Stephen answered drily. 

Her nerves were on edge; every little thing jarred upon 
her; she began to think herself neglected, miserable, and to 
long for congenial companionship. Stephen never was in 
time for meals; he ignored both gongs; she had always to 
go and fetch him. 

“Stephen dear, I wish you’d try and be more punctual!” 
she would sigh. “Or say when you’d like to have dinner. 
It’s not fair to the servants if you’re always late. It up¬ 
sets everything.” 

No one had ever expected him to be punctual; no one 
had worried him, or cared at what hour he dined. 

“My dear girl, the servants are used to my ways. It 
never has upset them and I don’t see why it should now.” 

‘ ‘ It keeps everything back, ’ ’ she complained. ‘ ‘ It makes 
it very difficult for me, too.” 

“Well, I’m sorry, ’Lisbeth,” he said. There was final¬ 
ity in his voice. Elizabeth remembered that Mrs. Ram¬ 
say had said it was she who would have to do the adapting. 

“Yes, that’s all very well,” she said, “but I do think 
you might consider me sometimes.” 

He looked at her, then came and sat down beside her. 

“What is it, darling? Why so cross?” 

“I’m not cross.” 

He tried to draw her on to his knee, but she shrank from 
him, and slipped away. He rose quickly. 

“Elizabeth!” 

She was trembling; she did not want him to touch her, 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


177 


yet she could not face the difficulties and the terrible 
trouble that would come if she told him so. 

“I—I’ve got a headache. Pm tired.” 

“But why did you flinch?” 

“I didn’t! I didn’t!” 

“You did. It’s not the first time either. For God’s 
sake, tell me, Elizabeth. What is it?” 

No, she could not bear it. It was all so hard and so 
awful. The easiest thing was to smother your feelings, 
and to keep up the wretched pretence. She went to him. 

“Oh, Stephen, how silly you are! I just feel out of 
sorts and otherwise-minded.” 

The anxious look in his eyes, the little worried frown, 
aroused her pity, and the mother in her. She tiptoed, to 
kiss him, and stroked his cheek. 

“Don’t be angry with me, Stephen dear.” 

His arms went round her. 

“Oh, my darling! Angry with you!” 

Cynthia came down for the week-end, with Christopher; 
she was polite and friendly towards Elizabeth, but there 
was antipathy between them. Christopher was adorable, 
and Elizabeth loved him. He was so fat and seraphic, 
and so determined. When you did something to amuse 
him he chuckled, and said, Again! He went on saying, 
Again, louder and louder, until you obeyed him. Cynthia 
sat in a big armchair, and Elizabeth played with Christo¬ 
pher at her feet. 

“You ought to have one of your own,” Cynthia said, 
quite gently. 

Elizabeth pretended not to hear. How blunt Cynthia 
was! 

But Stephen wanted it; Elizabeth knew that, and it 
frightened her. Once he spoke of it; she said, Not yet; 
I couldn’t. She was too young, she was not in very good 
health: so she evaded him. 


178 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Neither was happy, neither could speak of their unhap¬ 
piness to anyone. Stephen knew now that Elizabeth was 
fighting to keep him away from her; that hurt almost un¬ 
bearably. There seemed to be pitfalls all about him; one 
wrong step, he felt, would land him in one of them. He 
clung to the hope that Elizabeth was suffering from the 
depressing after-effects of influenza. She would get over 
it in time, if he were inconsiderate now, and forced her to 
yield to him, something terrible might happen to their 
marriage. He was not a fool; he could feel that disaster 
was hovering about them. If he were gentle and kind, 
they might come safely through this stormy period. Eliz¬ 
abeth was so young and so fragile, so easily scared; he 
could only wait, he thought. She should not be forced 
into submission; she made it impossible for him to talk to 
her, reasonably, as he would have liked to have done. 

As for Wendell, it was easy to see that he was attracted 
to Elizabeth. That Elizabeth had, or could ever have, a 
more tender feeling towards him than friendship was im¬ 
possible. That conviction was deeply rooted. Stephen 
could see no danger in allowing Wendell to visit them, if 
Elizabeth wanted it. Of all men, he, with his too-soft 
eyes, and too-full lips, was the least likely to exercise fas¬ 
cination over Elizabeth. When she awoke to a full reali¬ 
sation of love it would be for her husband, never for 
Wendell. You could not think of Elizabeth and Wendell 
together: it was loathsome, yes, ludicrous too. It was not 
as though Elizabeth’s code of morals was elastic; it was 
rigid and strict. Wendell, Stephen felt, could never be a 
danger. 

So when, in March, he invited himself to Queen’s Halt 
for a long week-end, Stephen said, 

“What do you feel about it, darling?” 

“Oh—I don’t really care!” she said. “Just as you 
like, Stephen.” 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


179 


“No, just as you like. If you think it’ll be a nuisance 
we’ll put him off.” 

“I don’t think we ought to do that—I’d rather like to 
see him again. He’s fun.” 

“Righto, ’Lisbeth,” he said. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


Wendell arrived on Friday, in a new car. He said that 
he had had her all out last week and she touched seventy. 
Not bad for a little ’bus like that, was it? He brought 
Elizabeth an enormous box of chocolates, and some hot¬ 
house roses. She took them as graceful gifts to the host¬ 
ess, and thanked him very much. Then he said, By Jove, 
topping place this, what? and admired the what-you-may- 
call it in the hall. 

* 1 Oh, the warming-pan!” Elizabeth said. 

“Yes. Jolly picturesque and quaint, an’ all that. 
Hullo! Nice little spaniel, that. Envy you this place, 
Ramsay, ’pon my word I do. ’Spose you’re a great gar¬ 
dener, Betty, what?” 

“No, I’m very stupid about it,” Elizabeth said. “The 
gardener says I pick the wrong flowers. Are you fond of 
the country?” 

“Oh, rather! Country in winter—jolly nice, you know. 
Hunting, an’ all that. Had a very good day a month ago 
with the Quorn. Pal o’ mine belongs. D’you hunt?” 

“I don’t ride at all. Stephen does, only he doesn’t care 
for hunting.” 

Wendell stared at Stephen. 

“What, not really?” 

“I’m a conscientious objector,” Stephen said. 

“Oh—fox gets a damn’ fine run for its money,” Wen¬ 
dell said vaguely. “Even chances, don’t you know?” 

“I wasn’t really thinking about the fox, but about the 
mere human.” 

Wendell was nonplussed. Queer chap, Ramsay. 

180 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


181 


“Human? Don’t quite get you.” 

“I like to discourage the primeval instinct,” Stephen 
said. 

“Oh—er—quite, quite!” Wendell answered, totally at 
sea. “You writing chaps always have funny notions. I 
say, Betty, I brought my golf clubs. You promised to 
take me round, remember?” 

“I think you’d better go with Stephen,” she smiled. 
“My golf is very little better than my billiards.” 

“Then it’s jolly good,” he said stoutly. “Stephen’s got 
to write his book.” 

Next morning she did take him round the golf-course, to 
prepare him, he said, for his round with Stephen in the 
afternoon. They did not play very seriously, but they 
talked a lot. 

Wendell, striding along beside Elizabeth, said, 

“Not looking awfully fit, are you, Bets? Tired, I mean, 
and a bit thin.” 

She thought how kind it was of him, and how sympa¬ 
thetic, to ask her. 

“I had ’flu in January, and I haven’t really got over 
it yet.” 

“Should think it’s pretty dull for you, buried down 
here, with Stephen writing all day,” he remarked. 

“Sometimes it is,” she sighed. “I was brought up in 
town you see. It’s rather a change.” 

“Yes, rather. Rotten for you. Any decent people liv¬ 
ing here?” 

“Oh—well, one or two. They’re quite nice, but not 
very great friends of mine.” 

Wendell nodded, just as though he quite understood. 
He didn’t ask her to be more explicit; that was so 
refreshing. 

“You ought to get Stephen to take a flat in town,” he 
said. “Be near your friends, and all that.” 


182 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“I don’t think he would,” she said lightly. “He’s so 
fond of the Halt. He was brought up here, just as I was 
brought up in town.” 

“Very bad luck,” he nodded. “What d’you do with 
yourself all day ? ’’ 

That was just it. She didn’t do anything—at least, 
nothing specific. If only there was something that she 
could do it would be different. Easier, not so dull and 
boring. 

“Oh, I—exercise the dogs, and do the shopping—some 
of it—and people call—and that sort of thing.” 

“Sounds pretty deadly,” he remarked. “What I mean 
is, no variety. Any cheery people about?” 

“Not very. There’s the Church-set—they go to Mothers’ 
Meetings and Infant Welfare Societies. It’s not very ex¬ 
citing. Then there’s the Bridge-set—they ’re rather mixed 
up together, those two. I can’t play bridge. And there’s 
the literary set. We’re that,” she added, rather bitterly. 

“Can’t stand literary shop. I say, that’s a bad brick, 
but you know what I mean! I’m not clever enough, what ? 
Don’t know what to say when people start talking ’bout 
‘technique,’ an’ form, an’ ‘influence of the Russian school.’ 
You know the sort of stuff.” 

“Yes, I know.” She did know. You could not live 
a day Stephen and Cynthia and Nina and the Tyrells 
without knowing. 

“Daresay it’s awfully interesting if you’re in the trade 
yourself. It’s all Greek to me. I know when I like a 
book, but I can’t tell you what the style’s like, or what 
the publisher’s name is. Don’t see that it matters, per¬ 
sonally. Can’t say that I often remember the blinking 
author’s name.” 

“I don’t see that it matters either,” Elizabeth sighed. 
“But the first thing Ste—any writer asks about a book 
is, Who published it?” 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


183 


“ Awful strain of the what-you-may-call-it. Intellect. 
Good word, that. Expect you’ll start writing yourself 
soon. Force of example, what?” 

‘* Goodness, no! I can’t even write a decent letter, and 
my taste in literature is had.” 

44 Lord! Is it? Daren’t speak about mine to Stephen. 
I like a good yarn—exciting, an’ not too long. Can’t 
stand these—what d’you call it ?—psy—psychological 
novels, whatever that may be. Lot of rot, I call it.” 

“Introspection,” said Elizabeth. “I know. I like 
Dickens and Mrs. Humphry Ward, and—books like 
theirs. Not too deep. I tried to read Meredith a little 
while ago.” 

* 4 Never heard of him.” 

‘ 4 He’s dreadful,” Elizabeth said. “I couldn’t make 
head or tail of him. And Hardy—well, I don’t approve 
of the sort of book he writes.” 

“Ah, quite!” Wendell answered profoundly. 

“And Bernard Shaw, and Chesterton and Galsworthy 
—I just can’t get on with them.” 

“Shouldn’t try.” 

“Oh, I’ve given it up! I’m too old to be re-educated. 
I don’t really appreciate Stephen’s books. Not in the 
proper way.” 

“I tackled one of ’em the other day. Bit beyond me. 
Awfully clever, of course, an’ that sort of thing.” 

“Yes, he’s very clever,” Elizabeth agreed. 

“Always feel a bit of a fool when Stephen’s about,” he 
confided. “Jolly nice chap, though.” 

“I think I do too,” she said, half to herself. 

“Oh, I say, what priceless rot. I bet you’ve got 
a lot tucked away under that topping hair of yours, 
Betty.” 

She blushed. She was flattered, but she felt vaguely 
that she ought not to allow Wendell to say these things. 


184 INSTEAD OF THE THORN 

Married women ought not to flirt with their husband’s 
friends. 

‘ ‘No good pretending you’re a fool,” Wendell con¬ 
tinued. “Frightfully wise look in your eye, don’t you 
know? Mysterious, an’ all that sort of thing.” 

That was interesting, and a surprise to her. She looked 
up at him. 

“Mysterious? Whatever do you mean?” 

By Jove, she was a pretty kid! Fascinating. That in¬ 
nocent little face. Inviting mouth too, and pretty teeth. 
Lovely dimples when she smiled. Too jolly attractive by 
far. 

“Oh, what I once heard a poet-johnny call ‘unfathom¬ 
able.’ Lot behind.” 

She walked on faster; the dimples peeped out. 

“How silly! You’re not to say such things. You’ll 
make me vain.” 

“You vain? Rot, Betty, rot! Imposs. Ab-solutely. 
Lucky chap, Stephen.” 

“Why do you insist on calling me Betty?” she asked. 
“No one’s ever done such a thing before.” 

“That’s why. Suits you, too. I like nicknames, you 
know. Cosier. More pally. See what I mean?” 

“No, I don’t think I do,” she said primly. 

Stephen went out with Wendell all the afternoon, and 
in the evening Nina came to dine. Elizabeth was worried 
about the trifle. There wasn’t enough wine in it, and she 
was afraid it would not go round. That distracted her 
attention; she was not at ease until dinner was over, and 
then she began to worry about the coffee, hoping that it 
would not be muddy as it was last night. 

“Nina,” Stephen said, when they were gathered about 
the drawing-room fire. “What’s this I hear about young 
Hemingway ? ’ ’ 

“Shut up!” said Nina. “Nothing at all.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


185 


‘‘ Keep your hair on!” he advised her. “No need to 
give yourself away.” 

She laughed, and flushed. Elizabeth suggested that they 
should “do something.” 

After some discussion they played vingt-et-un and poker, 
because Wendell suggested it. Elizabeth lost, but she en¬ 
joyed the game because no one took it very seriously. It 
didn’t matter if you could not remember poker-rules, es¬ 
pecially as Stephen and Wendell argued about it, and 
seemed to have quite different rules. It was a complicated 
game, Elizabeth thought, but it didn’t matter much if 
everyone had a different conception of its laws. 

Wendell said it was a pity there wasn’t a gramophone. 
Nina answered quickly that she wouldn’t have come if 
there had been, and Elizabeth agreed with Wendell that 
they could have got up an impromptu dance if they had 
had a gramophone. 

“ ’Lisbeth, would you really like one?” Stephen asked 
eagerly. 

“Not if you hate them.” 

“That’s just my pose. Snobbery, I think. We’ll go 
up to town next week and get one. Why didn’t you de¬ 
mand one before?” 

“Mechanical music,” said Nina, laughing. “I shall 
go on being snobbish. I once listened to a pianola. I did 
really, Stephen.” 

“I had one in my rooms at college,” Wendell said. 
“You can get a lot of fun out of a pianola. Just as good 
as a piano, and not half the fag.” 

“Oh, no, they’re dreadful!” Elizabeth said suddenly. 
“So horribly churned out.” 

“Hurray!” Nina cried. “Down with pianolas and 
barrel-organs. Elizabeth, have you ever heard Musetta’s 
song on a barrel-organ? It fascinated me. Like a dog 
against its will. I stood on the curb-stone and shivered 


186 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


all down my spine. Yes, and gave the man sixpence to 
play it again. Nobody understood my feelings except 
Aunt Charmian, and she said, Like looking at snakes.’’ 

‘‘Just what mater would say,” Stephen remarked. 
“Do you know my mother, Wendell?” 

“No, haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet.” 

“When you do,” Stephen said, “she’ll probably say, 
‘Ah, I once had a chauffeur whose name was Charles.’ So 
don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

“A chauffeur?” Wendell repeated, in mystification. 

“Or a parrot, or a pet duck. Anything that’s thor¬ 
oughly uncomplimentary,” Nina explained. “She always 
does it. When I was born she begged mother not to call 
me Nina as she’d once had a cat of that name and it 
died.” 

“Oh, 1 see!” Wendell said, and laughed, trying to 
sound as though he really did see and was amused. 

He didn’t like Nina; Elizabeth could see that. When 
Nina had gone, he said, 

“Pretty girl, what? Always get the wind up with those 
clever women. Never know what they’re driving at. 
More in Stephen’s line than mine, so I let him do all the 
talking.” 

That touched Elizabeth on the raw. Nina was “in 
Stephen’s line”—how well she knew that! Nina and 
Stephen understood one another; they had the same in¬ 
terests, and they thought the same things funny. They 
talked nonsense to each other, and neither thought that it 
was nonsense. Or if they did, they considered that it was 
amusing to be silly and inconsequent. Elizabeth didn’t 
think it amusing at all. It got on her nerves; it was a 
strain to have to follow their line of thought. Not only 
that. It was usually impossible. 

Stephen’s book was finished at last, and had gone to his 
typist. The publishers were impatient to see it; there was 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


187 


no doubt that they would accept it. Already they had 
begun to advertise. 

“That’s off my chest!’’ Stephen said. “They wanted 
to publish in the spring; I insist on June or later. Just 
before the summer holidays. Next there’ll be my typist’s 
idiocy to correct, and then—oh, ghastly job—proofs! 
And, Elizabeth—” he caught her in his arms. “I want 
my wife! ’ ’ 

She hoped he would not notice the hard beating of her 
heart. Why was he so insistent? Couldn’t he under¬ 
stand that she wanted to be left alone ? 

He was coaxing, petting her. 

“Darling, it’s had a dull brute of a husband for months, 
but I’m free now. And I won’t sit up till four o’clock 
in the morning any more. Oh, and I ’ll try to be punctual 
to meals! So can we go and have another honeymoon, 
please?” 

“I’d—rather—stay here,” she faltered. “Or—London 
—I don’t mind—but—one can only have—one honey¬ 
moon. ’ ’ 

“Nonsense, babe! We can have as many as we like!” 
he said gaily. “One every year.” 

“I—I’d prefer to stay here,” she said urgently. “I’ve 
—never seen—the Halt in the spring. And there are 
those eggs hatching out. Ducklings and chickens. I 
couldn’t miss them. The garden, too. Primroses. If—if 
you want a holiday—I don’t want to be a wet-blanket. 
You go away—if you want to.” 

His arms fell away from her. 

“Good God, Elizabeth, you can’t think I want a holiday 
from you? We haven’t been married a year yet!” 

“I didn’t mean that! I only thought— Husbands do 
go away by themselves. I know they do. It’s—it’s good 
for them. I could have Auntie to stay with me, too. Oh, 
and Sarah! ’ ’ 


188 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


She could see the frown gathering in his eyes; she 
dreaded an outbreak of his temper. 

* 1 Your Aunt! Sarah! Where do I come in, I’d like to 
know? It seems to me that I don’t come in at all!” 

“Oh, you can’t think thatl I—I didn’t mean that a 
bit!” 

With an effort he choked back his rising anger, and spoke 
levelly, holding Elizabeth’s hands. 

“I wish you’d tell me just what you do mean,” he said. 
“I can’t keep up with these half-sentences and—innuen¬ 
does. In my family we speak out. Can’t you do the same, 
Elizabeth? Am I to understand that you want me to go 
away ? ’ ’ 

It was what she had meant, but now that he put the wish 
into words she was frightened of it, and shrank away. 

“Oh, no! How could you think that?” 

He sighed faintly, looking at her. 

“My dear, I don’t know what to think. You hold me 
off with a pitch-fork.” 

“I—I don’t! It’s—it’s your imagination!” 

“It’s not. Else why am I still excluded from your room? 
I don’t like my dressing-room, Elizabeth. ’ ’ 

She was silent. There was nothing she could say. 

“You’re not being fair to me,” he said quietly. “I 
happen to be human, you see. You expect too much—or 
should I say too little?” 

“It’s you who expect too much of me!” she cried, 
goaded to it. 

He stood very still. For a moment there was silence; 
Elizabeth dared not look up. 

“Do I?” Stephen said slowly. “Oh!” 

“You—you expect me to like living here—in the country, 
and you expect me to like your friends—and everything! 
And I don’t! oh, I don’t!” A sob rose in her throat. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


189 


“You don’t? A minute ago you said you wanted to 
stay here. Who don’t you like? Is it Nina?” 

She was embarrassed, and sought to dissemble. 

“I ought not to have said that. I didn’t really mean 
it. Things—get on my nerves. Please don’t pay any at¬ 
tention to it!” 

Then his temper surged up, exasperated and hurt, and 
white-hot. He crushed her hands together; she saw the 
flame in his eyes and knew fear. 

“God, can’t you be honest with me?” The words bit. 
“Say what you think, and damn my feelings! How can 
I help to straighten things out if you lie, and lie all the 
time? Say that you loathe Nina! Say you loathe the 
Halt, and Me, and let’s have it out! You may like grop¬ 
ing about in a fog. I don’t! I was taught to be straight 
forward, not to cheat and lie!” 

4 ‘ How dare you ? ” she gasped. 4 ‘ Oh, how dare you ? I 
hate you! How could you say such a thing to me? How 
could you? Oh, I hate you!” 

The grip on her wrists was torture. 

“Yes, we’ve got it out now,’’ he said grimly. “You hate 
me. Don’t try and say you didn’t mean it! I’d rather 
have it straight from the shoulder like that, than be fooled 
and cheated, and held at arm’s length!” 

She was sobered for an instant, appalled at the storm 
she had roused. 

“Ah, I didn’t mean that! I—I don’t hate you, Stephen! 
You—oh, you know I don’t!” 

“I don’t know it. I’m beginning to feel that I know 
nothing about you. You’re wrapped round in a net-work 
of hypocritical evasions! You may think it’s fair to me; 
I don’t! D’you think I’m a fool to be deceived by your 
talk of ‘ influenza’ and ‘to-morrow’? You don’t mean to 
live with me as my wife. You’re hoping the desire’ll 


190 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


die in me. You—little—fool, don’t you understand?” 

1 ‘Let go my hands! You think me a fool! Oh yes, I’ve 
known that for a long time!” 

“If you can cheat yourself into imagining that I’ll be 
content to live with you as we’re living now you certainly 
are a fool. Good God, Elizabeth, I love you! ’ ’ 

“You don’t! You’d never—treat me like this—!” 

He laughed; it was an ugly sound, savage and 
mirthless. 

“I’ve treated you as though you were made of porcelain. 
You know that. I’ve been a damned fool! And you 
thought I’d keep it up for ever! Heavens, don’t you know 
what a man’s like yet? What do you suppose I married 
you for? To look at? That’s what I’ve been doing for 
the past months. Do you realise that? Do you think 
it’s a natural state of affairs? Do you think it’s fair to 
me, this—this platonic arrangement of yours? What do 
you take me for, Elizabeth? An iceberg, like yourself? 
I’m not. Got that? And I’ve had enough of this life 
we’re leading! I thought if I were patient—hell, patient! 
—you’d come to me of your own free will.” Again he 
laughed. “Instead of that you take advantage of my pa¬ 
tience, and draw farther away from me! Oh yes, you can 
look outraged, and if you like you can think yourself an 
insulted saint! But you’re not! You made a bargain 
with me when you married me, and now you refuse to ful¬ 
fill your part of it. Yes, and I’m a brute to expect it of 
you, aren’t I? I ought to be satisfied with your presence 
in my home, thankful that you let me kiss you! When you 
find that I want more than that from my Wife, you think 
me unreasonable! You sit on your pinnacle of false 
righteousness and never see that you’re cheating me of 
what is my right!” 

She had stopped struggling; she tried to cling to dignity, 
to stand straight and to face the flame of Stephen’s eyes. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


191 


But she was trembling from head to foot, from stark ter¬ 
ror, and a sense of violated decency. 

“I—never—dreamed you would—s-say such things—to 
me!” How her teeth chattered! She tried to smother 
the Fear, but it was too great. Were all men such primi¬ 
tive monsters as this ? ‘ 1 Let me go! You Ye—you Ye hurt¬ 
ing me! How dare you—say such things to—me ? I think 
you Ye horrible—horrible! ’ ’ 

“I daresay you do. You’ve heard the truth for once, 
and it shocks you. And you ’ve shown me that it’s folly— 
crass folly—to let a woman have her own way! The strong 
yielding to the weak! ’ ’ Again she shrank from that ugly 
laugh. “I tell you, Elizabeth, it’s women like you who 
make men into beasts! That’s what you think me, isn’t 
it ? Isn’t it f ” 

“Yes!” she cried. Dry sobs shook her. “Yes, yes, yes! 
You’re hateful, cruel, unjust!” 

“My God!” he said. “Yes, you think that. You can’t 
see that it’s you who are cruel and you who are unjust! 
So long as I’ll submit like a weak nincompoop to your 
unnatural ruling I’m decent and 1 nice.’ But when I 
refuse to give way to you any longer, then I’m cruel and 
unjust! Well, you can go on thinking that for as long 
as you’re fool enough. But I’ll be master. Do you un¬ 
derstand that? We’ve tried your way, and it’s no good. 
Now we’ll try mine, my lady.” 

“You—can’t mean—you can’t, can’t mean—you’d 
f-force me—V” 

“Can’t I?” There was savagery in his voice, and un¬ 
leashed passion. “You shall yield or you shall be made to 
yield. I mean that!” 

Then, before she could cry out, or struggle, he dragged 
her roughly into his arms, and kissed her as he had never 
kissed her before, fiercely and hard, in anger, full on her 
agonised mouth. 


192 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


She was helpless; his arms were like steel, and as merci¬ 
less; she felt that she was suffocating and that the rem¬ 
nants of her sanity were slipping from her. She tried 
to scream, and could not; fought madly, but could not 
break away one inch. Then she was released, suddenly, 
so that she staggered backwards, panting and in wildest 
alarm, catching at a chair-back for support. 

Through a haze she saw Stephen stride to the door and 
go out. She sank quivering into the chair and crouched 
there, listening. She heard the front-door slam, and the 
excited barking of the dogs. The sound of hasty, nervous 
footsteps died away on the gravel path; the barking grew 
fainter, and stopped. 

She did not know how long she cowered in the chair 
after Stephen had gone, or how long it was before the 
chaotic, racing thoughts grew calmer and more reasonable. 
The Fear was less now Stephen had gone, but when he 
came back it would return, more awful this time, impos¬ 
sible to control. She had seen the real Stephen, the primi¬ 
tive Stephen, and the sight appalled her. There was no 
longer safety under his roof. He was merciless and pow¬ 
erful. He could force his will on her. 

She lifted her shaking hands and looked with dilated 
eyes at her bruised wrists. That was Stephen. Brutal, 
ruthless. She had not known. All this time she had never 
so much as guessed at the presence of a Monster in Stephen. 
Were all men like that? Not gentle and admiring and 
kind as they showed themselves at first, but coarse and 
hard, like brutes. You could not fight; you were weak 
and helpless. A man could do what he liked with you; 
yes, with one hand tied behind him. Life was a night¬ 
mare, no longer a romance, a nightmare from which there 
was no escape. 

Escape. . . . That checked her thoughts. Escape. She 
started up, looking at the clock. Her knees were trem- 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


193 


bling. Suppose he returned suddenly? Before she had 
had time to go. To go. Right away. Alone. Leaving 
all this horror behind. Only she must be quick. What 
was it Stephen had said?—“You shall yield or you shall 
be made to yield. I mean that.” If she had found it 
hard to bear him before when he was gentle, how much 
harder would it be now that he was angry and a stranger ? 

She straightened her hair. It would not do to let the 
servants see her panic. She must be calm. Not let them 
suspect. 

Jenkins was polishing the brass-work on the car. How 
surprised he looked! but respectful, sympathetic. He was 
sorry madam had had bad news. Yes, if madam could be 
ready at once he thought he could drive her to Tonbridge 
in time to catch the four-ten to London. Only he’d have 
to put the car along a bit. 

That didn’t matter. If there were an accident and she 
were killed, so much the better. She went indoors, up to 
her room. 

Rose was there dusting. Rose was sympathetic too, and 
helped her to pack a suit-case. Nana came; how she hated 
Nana! 

“I did not hear the telephone bell ring, madam.” 

Nana suspected. Let her, then. She would be done 
with them all soon. Let them think what they liked. 

It was strange that she could think so coolly when every 
nerve was stretched to breaking-point. Money. She’d 
drawn a cheque on Wednesday. That was all right. Her 
cheque-book. She’d have to have her account transferred 
to London. That didn’t matter now. And the rest of her 
clothes. Something would have to be done. No good wor¬ 
rying about that now. Nana’s impassive face. What was 
Nana to tell the master? Nothing. She would write a 
note. He’d understand. 

She wrote in the library, at Stephen’s desk, with the car 


194 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


waiting for her outside. How did one begin a letter like 
this? “Dear Stephen”—how silly that would be! Bet¬ 
ter to start straight away. 

“I’ve gone. I couldn’t stop. I’ve told the servants 
I’d had a telephone call from home. You needn’t worry 
about me, I’ve got plenty of money. I’m sorry if it’s 
been my fault. Elizabeth.” 

She put it in an envelope and sealed it. An apology 
for a letter. Stephen would have done it better, probably. 
Only she wasn’t a novelist. It would have to stand as it 
was. There was no time to re-write it. 

She went out to the car, and got in. 

“I do ’ope it’s nothing serious, ma’am!” Rose said. 

Nothing serious! If only they knew! Well, they would 
know soon. 

“No, I hope not. Ready, Jenkins.” 

“We shall be seeing you again in a few days, madam?” 
That was Nana. Never. Never again. 

“Oh, yes, I expect so!” Lying. That was lying, real 
lying. Stephen could accuse her with justice now. Liar 
and cheat. Stephen, Mr. Hengist. Liar and cheat, liar 
and cheat. 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


There was a hotel off Baker Street, quite a small one. 
Someone had told her about it, and the name stuck in her 
mind. She told the taxi-driver to take her there. All the 
way up to town she had wondered where to go, or what to 
do. The first thought had been home. She had no home. 
She had left the Boltons for Queen’s Halt. Now she had 
left that, and there was no home. She could not go back 
to the Boltons. She thought of her aunt’s horror and dis¬ 
tress, Lawrence’s anger. They would not understand. 
They would try to make her go back to Stephen. They 
might even say that she had disgraced them. Well . . . 
She supposed she had, only how‘much were they to blame? 
She didn’t want to see them. If she had been an innocent, 
pretending fool, it was their fault. They had taught her 
to pretend to be ignorant. They had reared her in a rose- 
mist, and given her, like that, into a man’s power. Aunt 
Anne would never see that it was all her fault. She would 
talk meaningless platitudes. She could not see Aunt Anne 
yet. Not until she had become calm after this awful 
storm. 

There was Mrs. Ramsay. She had said, If ever you 
want help, come to me. Yes, but you couldn’t run away 
from a man to his mother. Mrs. Ramsay’s sympathies 
would be with Stephen. You could not possibly go to her; 
soon she would hate you because you did not love her son. 

That was a fact, and she faced it. She didn’t love 
Stephen. She had never loved him. Therein had she 
cheated; that at least was true. She wasn’t cheating 
now whatever she had done in the past. All those things 

195 


196 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


Stephen had said. . . . True ? perhaps they were. She had 
made an end of it though. She hadn’t been able to pretend 
any longer. He had made that impossible. In a way, she 
supposed she had been forced into this, first honest action. 
She would have gone on pretending if Stephen had not 
torn down her barricades. It was Stephen who had 
brought matters to a climax, by his anger and his rebellious 
passion. She could not look back on that without a shudder. 
Pretence was over. She had done something dreadful in 
running away; had she been calmer or more sane she would 
never have done it: she would not, she thought, have had 
the courage. But since, in a moment of frightened mad¬ 
ness, she had done it, she would never go back. "Well, that 
was being honest. Only how maddening it all was! 
Stephen had said that honesty was a virtue. Mr. Hengist, 
too. Running away from your husband wasn’t a virtue, 
though. It was wicked, and she, Elizabeth Arden, had 
done it. 

She would try to go on being honest; that, in part, was 
why she wrote to Stephen on the day after her arrival in 
town. 

He came to the hotel; she had expected that, and she had 
braced herself to meet him. She was afraid; she dreaded 
seeing him, dreaded the inevitable argument. Even now, 
had her fear of him been less, she would have given in and 
returned to Queen’s Halt, because it was so awful to 
quarrel, and so much more natural to her to obey than to 
stand by her own resolves. Yet there was in her a curious 
streak of obstinacy. It showed itself sometimes in the 
details of life, and now it reared up its head to face 
this great distaster. In madness had she taken the biggest, 
most momentous step of her life; it would be easier to go 
on than to turn back; easier after the first struggle. 

She was in her bedroom when Stephen came. The hall- 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 197 

porter fetched her, and immediately her pulses started to 
race again. 

Stephen was very pale. She found him in the deserted 
lounge, standing with his back to the fire, tight-lipped, and 
with hard anxious eyes. There was no trace of the demon 
in his face, but Elizabeth felt, It is there, covered up. It 
is always there. I can never go back to him. 

Neither spoke for a long minute. She was trembling; 
when Stephen stepped forward she shrank. 

“I’ve come to take you home, Elizabeth.” 

She shook her head. 

“I—c-can’t.” 

There fell another silence. The ticking of the marble 
clock on the mantelpiece dinned in Elizabeth’s ears. 

11 Where can we talk without being disturbed ? ’ ’ Stephen 
asked abruptly. 

Her voice was unsteady; she tried to calm it, and 
herself. 

“N-no one is likely to c-come in,” she said. “The—the 
people who live here—go out to work—all day. There— 
there isn’t anything—to say—really, Stephen! Please 
don’t—please don’t argue!” 

“There’s everything to say, Elizabeth. You know that.” 

“No, no. Please—oh, please leave me alone! I—I can’t 
come back to you! I can’t! I—you said I ch-cheated 
you, and—and I think—it’s true.” She took a deep breath. 
“I—never really—loved you. I—I’m sorry, Stephen.” 
It was out. She had said it; she had been frank, but what 
an effort it had cost her! 

“You did love me once. It was my abominable temper 
the other day that frightened you. I’ve come to apologise 
for that. If you will—come back to me—it shall be on 
your—own—terms. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t! Please don’t! Please don’t!” 


198 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“You must come back. In time—you’ll learn—to care, 
perhaps. ’ ’ 

“No, no! You—you don’t understand! I can’t! I’d 
r-rather die!” 

He winced. 

“Elizabeth, we’re not living in a neurotic novel! You 
can’t leave me like this! It’s unthinkable!” 

“I—I have left you! I— can’t live with you! I didn’t 
know—I couldn’t— I—I won’t cheat you—any more— 
so I’ve—I’ve run away.” 

He tried to take her hand; she evaded him. 

“I’d no right to say what I did, Elizabeth. I’ll try to 
make you happy if only you’ll trust me again! I’ll—I’ll 
try to be content with your companionship. Can’t you 
forgive me?” 

“No—please, no! Please let me go! It’s not f-fair— 
you—you couldn’t be con-content and—I—you couldn’t 
make me happy. I—I’m not a companion to you. I— 
don’t understand you. Nina does. She can—be your 
companion. I can’t! I can’t!” 

“Nina! Good God, what is Nina compared with 
you?” 

“I—I don’t know. I didn’t mean— Don’t be angry! 
I can’t bear it. It’s—it’s been a mistake. I can’t go on— 
I can’t go on!” 

“You mean that the sight of me is hateful to you?” 

It was. She could not forget his face when they had 
quarrelled. Cruelty and desire. Horrible. Horrible. 

“Oh, I—no, no! It’s only— Oh, I’m so tired of it all! 
I want to be left alone! I want to be—to be able to think! 
It was a mistake. Everything!” 

“I’ll never believe that. I’ve made you think so with 
my damned temper. Together we—could make it a success. 
Ah, Elizabeth, we could! Forget what I said, and let’s 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


199 


start afresh! Elizabeth, you must! I can’t possibly let 
you go like this! You don’t understand!” 

“Oh, don’t, don’t! Don’t make me! Please don’t make 
me!” 

Words, arguments rained about her. She listened, quiv¬ 
ering, to Stephen’s pleading, his reasoning, even his anger. 
At last, looking drearily up at him, she said, 

‘ 1 If—if you make me come back now—I think I shall die. 
Leave me—just for a little while!” 

That was cheating. Gaining time—putting him off with 
false hopes. She would never go back, only she could not 
tell him so. He would find out in time. 

Her words gave him pause. In silence he paced the 
room, thinking, thinking. He could see that Elizabeth was 
beside herself; he could see too that for the moment at least 
she was in deadly fear of him, fear and repulsion. All his 
thoughts were concentrated on the determination to save 
this marriage of theirs from the rocks. The look of weak¬ 
ening despair on Elizabeth’s face cut him to the quick, but 
he realised that she was in earnest. He could not believe 
that she would always be so. He would not believe that. 
The other day he had driven her to desperate, incontinent 
flight by anger, and by precipitate action. He must be 
careful now; he would do nothing to drive her further 
from him. In anger he had uttered threats which he would 
never have carried out. It was not in his nature to coerce 
the thing he loved most. He would never have done so, 
only she did not know that and he could not convince her. 
In her present mood she was capable of any madness; he 
would not drive her to it. He clung to the hope that time 
would soften her, and make her wiser. Just now it would 
be cruel to force her against her will. Cruel and perhaps 
disastrous. She would come back to him if he insisted; 
he knew that. But the spiritual part of her would go far- 


200 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


ther and farther away. That might never come back. 
How easily could he ruin everything now! 

She was frightened, watching him with great, appre¬ 
hensive eyes. Pity for her helplessness and her fear took 
possession of him. After all, she was hardly more than a 
child. She must be comforted, re-assured. 

He went to her, and sat down beside her, taking her 
hand. The hardness had gone from his face, and when he 
spoke his voice was quiet, free from that disturbing passion. 

“All right, Elizabeth. Don’t look so scared. Listen to 
me, dear.” 

Her hand lay passive in his; her eyes did not waver from 
his face. 

‘ ‘ If you are set on it you shall stay away from me for a 
time, as you suggest. I’m not going to force you into any¬ 
thing. I might do it, and we might settle down—quite 
comfortably. But we shouldn’t ever be happy. Not as I 
want to be happy. So I’ll let you go. Oh, not for ever, 
Elizabeth! I couldn’t do that, and you mustn’t ask me to. 
You don’t hate me; I’m sure of that. It’s only that you— 
haven’t learned the meaning of Love. You won’t learn it 
if I make you come back to me against your will. I see 
that. But I want you to remember, Elizabeth, that if I 
chose I could make you. Instead of that, I suggest that 
we—agree to separate for a time. I won’t try to see you 
or worry you in any way during that time, but if you 
feel—that you don’t mean, after all, what you’ve said to¬ 
day, I want you to send for me. I want you to promise 
that you will. If at the end of the time—you still feel 
the same—I suppose—we shall have to—make some sort of 
an—arrangement. Will you agree to that? If you won’t, 
then I shall take you home with me to-day.” 

“Yes, oh yes!” she breathed thankfully. Then she re¬ 
alised the sacrifice Stephen was willing to make for her 
sake, and the hope he cherished. Some unknown impulse 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


201 


made her say quickly, “Stephen—I shan’t change! It’s— 
it’s not fair to you—this arrangement. Let—let me go 
now—altogether! ’ ’ 

“I can’t. You wouldn’t be able to understand if I ex¬ 
plained. Just believe that I can’t.” 

She was holding fast to her courage. Again she man¬ 
aged to speak frankly. 

“I—don’t want to—lead you on—under false pretences! 
I’ve—I’ve done enough of that! You’ll—hope—all the 
time—and it’ll be—no good!” 

“I’m willing to risk that. I’m going into this with my 
eyes open. Only, Elizabeth, I want you to think it over 
all the time, sanely. Don’t let—other people—influence 
you. If you’re happy without me—I’ll—I’ll set you free. 
But if you’re not, if you’re lonely, or miserable, then send 
for me. Promise me that!” 

She had tried to make him see how she felt; she had tried 
to be honest. She could do no more. 

“Yes, Stephen. I—I promise.” 

His hand tightened on hers. 

“You see, ’Lisbeth, we—we can’t end like this. I— 
That’s not possible. But this is the only way—that I can 
see—to give our happiness a chance. And we must do 
that, Elizabeth. We must. I can’t believe that this is the 
end of our life together. I know it isn’t. It’s—an inter¬ 
lude. We’ll look back on it some day, and smile, and 
wonder what was the matter with us. I suppose most mar¬ 
ried people go through a period of—dissension, only with 
us it’s more acute, more dangerous. So whatever we do, 
Elizabeth, don’t let us plunge in the dark. You don’t 
know your own mind yet. A year from now it’ll be dif¬ 
ferent. You’ll know—at least, I think so—one way or 
the other.” 

She looked curiously up at him. 

“You’re—willing to wait—all that time?” 


202 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Yes, if eventually—we come together again. It won’t 
take so long as that. I—I hope it won’t. I don’t know— 
I may be talking nonsense, but I feel that we’ve got—just 
a chance.” 

1 ‘You—you may change,” she reminded him nervously. 
“You may find that—that you don’t love me—after all.” 

He smiled, crookedly. 

“No, I shan’t do that. I do love you. That can’t 
change. ’ ’ 

“I’m—I’m not a companion to you. A thousand things 
that I do—or don’t do—irritate you.” 

“But still I love you. It makes all the difference, ’Lis- 
beth. If you really love, those little irritations don’t mat¬ 
ter—except momentarily. You get above them. They do 
matter to you—because—you don’t—love me. And be¬ 
cause I know that you don’t—love anyone else—I feel 
there’s hope. There’s no other man. You just haven’t 
learned to love. That’s all. ’ ’ 

“I don’t think—I shall ever learn,” she said wistfully. 
“I—I wasn’t meant to be married.” 

“You were, ’Lisbeth. Only you haven’t grown up yet. 
I’m beginning to see that. A year will make a difference 
in you. And, ’Lisbeth, promise me this!—If ever you need 
me, or want my help, you won’t let pride stand in the 
way? Send for me. I shan’t come if you don’t, you see.” 

She hesitated. 

“It’s not much to ask, ’Lisbeth,” he said, rather sadly. 

“No, oh no! I—I will promise. Th-thank you. I— 
suppose I’ve—treated you—very badly. I’m—sorry. It 
—it hasn’t been all my fault, Stephen.” 

“I know that. A lot of it’s been my fault, and a lot— 
your upbringing. You haven’t had a fair start. Well, 
you shall have it now, ’Lisbeth. By yourself. And—I 
think—we’d better discuss things from the business point 
of view now.” He paused, fighting the longing to take 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 203 

her in his arms. “Do you propose to stay here, or will 
you take a little flat somewhere ? ’’ 

“I think—I shall stay here. I—I like it. I couldn’t 
afford a flat.” 

“You can afford what you like, Elizabeth. You don’t 
imagine I am going to let you provide for yourself? Your 
allowance will be paid into whatever branch you name.” 
“Oh, please no! I—I couldn’t, Stephen!” 

“You must,” he said. “You’re still my wife.” 

“I shan’t touch it!” she said vehemently. “I couldn’t! 
You can’t make me do that!” 

He shrugged, but she saw his mouth set obstinately. 

“It will be paid in. Give me credit for some pride too, 
Elizabeth.” 

Again she gave way. 

“Very well. But—I shan’t touch it.” 

“But it’ll be there. Surely I’m not as hateful to you as 
that?” 

“No—but—I couldn’t! ” 

There was a pause. 

“Shall your things be sent to you here?” Stephen 
asked. 

“Yes, p-please. I—I think I shall go away—for a time. 
To the sea, perhaps. By myself.” 

His eyelids flickered. 

“Take Sarah,” he said. “You’re such a—babe.” 

“I—I’d rather go alone. I shan’t come to any harm. 
I—I don’t want to see anyone—for a bit.” 

He was frowning. He looked down at her. 

4 ‘ May I give you the address of some rooms ? I know the 
landlady. I’d feel happier about you, ’Lisbeth.” 

‘ 1 Oh—if you like! Thank you. ’ ’ 

He drew out his poeketbook and wrote an address. 

“At Torquay,” he said, giving the slip of paper into 
her hand. “ I think you’ll like it. ” He rose, and she saw 


204 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


that his face was almost haggard. “I think—that’s all. 
Except—Goodbye.’ ’ 

She rose also. 

“And—and thank you. I do—appreciate—what you’re 
doing for me. I’m—I’m sorry for—everything. I sup¬ 
pose—my people—know?” 

“No. I rang up to ask if you were there—but I was 
careful not to—let them suspect. ... You see, I thought 
then that—well, never mind.” 

* 1 1 shall have to tell them, ’ ’ she said. Then she put out 
her hand. “Goodbye, Stephen.” 

He took her hand and kissed it for a long moment. 

“No, ’Lisbeth. Only— an revoir .” 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


Elizabeth left London almost immediately for Torquay. 
Mentally she was bruised. All these months of strain had 
preyed on her nerves, so that now her whole system cried 
out for peace and rest. She left most of her baggage at 
Baker Street, and with one small trunk journeyed west. 

Before she left she wrote to her aunt and to her father, 
a joint letter. She was amazed at her own curtness when 
she read the letter over; it seemed as though all the soft¬ 
ness and aifection had gone out of her. Baldly, reticently 
she told her family what had happened. She would say 
nothing that was disloyal to Stephen; it was just “a mis¬ 
take,” and they had agreed to part “at any rate for a 
time.” She begged that neither Lawrence nor Miss Arden 
would follow her to Torquay; she wanted to be alone, but 
when she returned to London she would come to see them. 

She thought, How strange that I should write like this 
to my people! Only a year ago I could not have done it. 
I thought that I adored them. Was I pretending then, 
or have I changed? 

Their answers reached her at Torquay. A wail ran 
through Miss Arden’s six-paged letter, a wail against the 
brutality and selfishness of men, a wail for her niece’s un¬ 
happiness. Without hearing the facts she ranged herself 
on Elizabeth’s side. Men were beasts; men cared only for 
themselves; men were everything that was loathsome. 
Elizabeth must come home, and “forget all about it.” 
Elizabeth must surely want her aunt at such a time. She 
at least understood and sympathised. 

Elizabeth read it through slowly, dispassionately. Yes, 
205 


206 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Aunt was being kind, but it was too late. She was left far 
behind; she belonged to the past, that other world. She 
didn’t understand. The letter went on to the fire, not in 
anger or impatience, but in sadness. 

Lawrence began, My dear little girl. That jarred. 
Lawrence took her parting from Stephen as a personal in¬ 
sult to himself. He was astonished, grieved; he was sure 
he did not know what his little girl was thinking about. 
He had approved Stephen as a husband for her; she must 
return to Stephen at once. Really, he thought she had 
taken leave of her senses. , 

That letter followed Miss Arden’s into the fire. They 
couldn’t understand; they didn’t even see how much they 
were to blame. 

Torquay soothed her. She, who had never been by her¬ 
self before, now gloried in her freedom. Stephen wrote 
briefly that he was going abroad for a time, but that 
letters addressed to his agent would find him. Elizabeth 
felt that she could breathe more freely now that there was 
no fear of meeting her husband. 

Her landlady was sometimes rather trying. She would 
come up to Elizabeth’s sitting-room on some pretext or 
other, and would stand there by the door, her hands un¬ 
der her apron, indulging in reminiscence. Mostly it was, 
Fancy now! To think of Mr. Stephen—I should say Ram¬ 
say—being grown up and married, as you might say. 

Elizabeth smiled always, and answered, 

“It must seem strange.” 

“Well, it do, ma’am, an’ that’s a fact. Why, it seems 
only yesterday they was ’ere—’im and ’is ma, an’ Miss 
Cynthia. Lor’, an’ she’s married too! Well, reely, I 
find it ’ard to believe, ma’am.” 

* 1 She has a son—a dear little chap, ’ ’ Elizabeth said. 

“Has she reely, ma’am? Well, I do declare! An’ 
how’s Mrs. Ramsay, if I may ask?” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


207 


“Very well, I believe. I—I haven’t seen her for some 
little time.” 

“Ah, well, she were what I call a real lady. Not one of 
your C.3 ladies. I remember she were always losing some¬ 
thing, an’ the nurse an’ Master Stephen—I should say 
Mr. Ramsay—was always runnin’ round after her. 
Well, I must say she did make me laugh.” Then 
Mrs Benson would draw a deep breath and start off 
again. 

“And now Mr. Stephen—I should say Mr. Ramsay—has 
got a wife of his own! I read ’is book what came out a 
year ago. If I may pass the remark I should say that it 
was a very pretty tale, I’m shore. When I think of ’im 
sitting in this very room with ’is ma—well, he couldn’t 
’ave bin moreen twelve—lookin’ after ’er, quite the man, 
as I says to Mrs. Ramsay—well, reely, it does make you 
think, don’t it?” 

Elizabeth agreed that it did. 

“I took quite a fancy to ’im, I must say. Well, ’e ’ad 
such a way with him an ’ all. 1 1’m the man o ’ the fam ’ly, ’ 
’e says to me. < I got to look after me mother and Cynthia. ’ 
Well, I thought, if that isn’t touching! An’ so Vs mar¬ 
ried. Will ’e be coming down ’ere at all, ma’am, if I may 
make so bold as to ask?” 

“Er—no,” Elizabeth said. “I—I’ve come—by myself, 
on a—rest-cure.” 

That always aroused Mrs. Benson’s sympathy and inter¬ 
est. She told Elizabeth all about her own ailments, and 
how her pore ’usband used to suffer somethink cruel, ’e 
did, from ’is inside. A floating kidney, ’e ’ad, and she 
could assure Elizabeth it weren’t no joke, because you 
couldn’t ever tell where it ’ud get to next, as one might 
say. 

Elizabeth usually terminated these gruesome recollec¬ 
tions by going out for a walk. Nothing else would stop 


208 INSTEAD OF THE THORN 

Mrs. Benson, once she had got into the swing of her nar¬ 
ration. 

She remained at Torquay for a month, leading a life 
of indolence and much thought. Then loneliness came to 
her, and she longed for companionship. Whose com¬ 
panionship she did not know. Not Miss Arden’s, certainly, 
or her father’s. 

She went back to London, to the little south room that 
had been kept for her. You could hear the roar of the 
traffic in Baker Street from it, not aggressively, but as 
from a great distance. That in itself was company. If 
you craned out of the window and looked along the street 
you could see the gay red omnibuses pass the end of the 
road. But it was lonely in the hotel. Save for one old 
lady, who objected to all newcomers, she was by herself 
there all day. The other people snatched hasty break¬ 
fasts early in the morning, and did not appear again until 
dinner-time. 

Miss Arden was upset that Elizabeth would not come 
back to live at home. In that resolve Elizabeth was un- 
shakeable. She could give no reasons, because they would 
have hurt Miss Arden; she could only repeat that she 
wanted to live alone. 

Lawrence fumed and was aggrieved. It was impossible 
that his little girl should do such a thing. If she refused 
to return to her husband—really, he would never have be¬ 
lieved that Elizabeth could be so selfish and unreasonable— 
she must live under the shelter of her father’s roof. That 
was his last word. 

It wasn’t his last word by any means, but his arguments 
made no impression on Elizabeth. She listened wearily, 
and when he had finished, said, 

“I’m sorry, father. I prefer to stay where I am.” 

“And pray what am I to say to Stephen?” Lawrence 
inquired. “Do you suppose he will approve of this—this 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


209 


independence? I never heard of such a thing. I’m most 
disappointed in you, Elizabeth. I can’t get over your be¬ 
haviour. ’ ’ 

“I’m sorry. Stephen knows what I am doing. He quite 
approves. ’ ’ 

“I don’t know what the world’s coming to!” Lawrence 
said. “I should have thought the least Stephen could do 
would have been to come and see me. Instead of that he 
writes me a letter, stating the facts in what I can only 
call a very curt way. The whole affair is most disgrace¬ 
ful and uncalled for. If you want my opinion, there it 
is.” 

She didn’t want it. He was futile and tiresome. If 
only he would leave her alone! If only Miss Arden would 
not say, Oh, my dear, I’m not surprised! I felt it coming! 
Miss Arden wanted to hear the full story; she worried 
Elizabeth to tell her everything. In desperation Elizabeth 
said, 

“It’s between Stephen and me. I can’t tell anyone. 
Please leave me alone! ’ ’ 

Then Miss Arden would look hurt, and shake her head. 

“How you’ve changed , Elizabeth!” she would sigh. 

Elizabeth’s visits home grew less and less frequent. Of¬ 
ten when Miss Arden came to her hotel she told the porter 
to say that she had gone out. Aunt Anne meant to be 
kind, but she made matters worse. 

Then, one afternoon when she was darning stockings in 
her bedroom, Mr. Hengist’s card was brought up to her. 
That drove the colour from her cheeks; she felt she could 
not face him, and yet that she must. She went down to 
the lounge and stood against the door, looking at him in un¬ 
happy defiance, at bay. 

“Hullo, Elizabeth,” he said, coming forward. “You’re 
not looking very fit, my dear. I didn’t come to see you 
before as I thought you’d want to be alone.” 


210 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


The defiance went out of her; gratefully she touk his 
hand. 

4 ‘It’s so—nice of you to come,” was all she could say. 
“Sit down—there’s only one horrid old lady in at the mo¬ 
ment, and she lives in the drawing-room. You’ll stay to 
tea, won’t you?” 

“No, I want you to come out to tea with me,” he said. 

She sat down opposite him, on the other side of the fire¬ 
place. 

“Thank you very much. I’m—I’m afraid I’m in dis¬ 
grace, though.” She smiled, rather pitifully. 

“My dear child, your father’s a nice old stick, but he’s a 
fool.” 

She gasped. 

“Good gracious, Mr. Hengist!” 

“You know that as well as I do,” he said. “Your aunt 
too. Well-meaning, which makes it worse. Where’s 
Stephen ? ’ ’ 

“I think—in Spain.” 

He nodded. 

“Seen any of his relations?” 

“Oh, no!” she shuddered. “I daren’t! I couldn’t!” 

“Um! Well, you’ve made a fairly good mess of things, 
Elizabeth.” 

“Don’t say, I told you so!” she begged. There was a 
catch in her voice. 

“It’s the last thing in the world I should say. What I 
want to know is, Are you any happier now that you’ve 
chucked Stephen and started out on your own?” 

She looked down at her wedding-ring, and twisted it 
in silence for a moment. 

“I think—I shall be.” 

“But you’re not at present?” 

“Oh ... ! I’m glad to be free. If Father and Aunt 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


211 


Anne—wouldn’t—wouldn’t make things so hard—I should 
he very happy, I think.” 

He started to fill the inevitable pipe, but she saw the 
twinkle in his eye. 

‘* All right. We’ll see. Question is, what are you going 
to do?” 

“Do?” She looked startled. 

“Yes, do. Going to live an aimless life in a hotel?” 

ii Oh, no, of course not! I—I’m afraid I haven’t thought 
about it much just yet.” 

“Well, I suggest that you do think about it. You’ll 
soon get bored if you’ve no occupation.” 

He was unexpected and cheerful; she felt that he was 
her best friend. He was very outspoken, of course, but 
how kind! 

“What can I do?” she asked. “I don’t think I have 
any special qualifications.” 

“Not one,” he agreed candidly. 

“I can drive a car,” she pointed out, rather piqued. 

“I shouldn’t, recommend a job as chauffeuse. Too 
tiring. ’ ’ 

“I can tell you what I would rather like to do,” she 
said suddenly, “I’d like to help in a creche. Children, 
you know.” 

“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Two days a week stunt. 
Not at all bad.” 

“Of course, one doesn’t get paid for that sort of work,” 
she said. 

He blew a cloud of smoke. 

“Oh! Want money?” 

41 Well, yes. I—I shall want some. ’ ’ 

“Haven’t you an allowance?” 

She flushed. 

“I won’t touch a penny of it!” 


212 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Quite right/' said Mr. Hengist. “Don't.” 

She looked up eagerly. 

“Oh, you do see that I can't?” 

“Certainly. If you let a man down you can't live on 
his money.” 

There was a long silence. 

“Do you—think—that, Mr. Hengist?” 

“What, that you’ve let Stephen down? Yes. What 
do you think ?'' 

“I—you don’t quite—understand.” 

“My dear child, don't start that parrot-cry. It means 
nothing. You married Stephen, you found marriage 
wasn't quite as jolly as you thought it was going to be, 
so you chucked it up. However, I didn’t come to talk 
about that. It's nothing to do with me. You can settle 
your own differences.” 

“Mr. Hengist—I want you to realize that—whether I've 
behaved badly—or not—I'm not going back—to Stephen.” 

“All right, don't. I think you’ll be throwing away 
an exceedingly nice husband, but that's your lookout. 
Bevenons a nos moutons. What do you propose to do?” 

Mr. Hengist was not taking her seriously; he talked as 
though she were still a child, not as though she were a 
woman who had taken a great step in life. 

“I don’t know,” she said peevishly. “I shall have to 
think about it.” Then an idea occurred to her, and she 
leaned forward. “Oh, Mr. Hengist, how much ought 
I to give the waitress here? And the chambermaid, and 
the porter?” 

He was puzzled. 

“Give them? Give them what?” 

“Tips. I've—I've never done it, and it is so difficult 
to know. I—I think one does it regularly, only how much 
ought I to give?” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


213 


“I’ve no idea,” he said brazenly. “That’s one of the 
drawbacks of being on your own, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t regret it,” she said quickly. “Only—I’m 
thinking of going into rooms.” 

“Won’t you be rather lonely?” 

“Oh, no! I’ye—I’ve my friends, and anyway I 
hardly ever speak to the other people here. I should be 
much more comfortable in rooms. In fact, I’ve been 
looking at one or two, and I’ve almost decided to move 
into some further down the street. They’re very clean 
and nice, and I liked the landlady. I should be awfully 
happy in a little place by myself.” 

“Would you?” Again Mr. Hengist’s eyes twinkled. 
“Then I should move into them by all means. You might 
take in typewriting.” 

She was dubious. 

“What sort of typewriting? I haven’t got a machine, 
and they’re awfully expensive to buy. Besides, I don’t 
know how to type.” 

“Easily learn,” he said. “As a matter of fact I’ve 
got a machine I don’t want. I’ll bring it along.” 

She looked rather suspicious. 

“You’ve got a machine?” 

“Yes,” he lied cheerfully. “I bought it not long ago, 
and I’ve hardly used it. A Remington. You can have 
it.” 

“It’s awfully kind of you,” she said. “You’ll—you’ll 
let me pay for it—won’t you?” 

“No, I will not!” said Mr. Hengist loudly. “Upon my 
word, Elizabeth, things have come to a pretty pass if I 
can’t give you a typewriter if I wish!” 

She laughed. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings!” she said. “I 
don’t believe you’ve got a typewriter at all. Have you?” 


214 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


*‘Never you mind,” he growled. “Any more nonsense 
about paying from you, and I wash my hands of you!” 

“Oh, please!” she begged. “I won’t mention the word 
again! Thank you very, very much! ’ ’ 

Mr. Hengist struck another match. 

“You learn to typewrite decently—mind you use your 
brain, Elizabeth!—and then we 11 see about getting work. 
I know several people who might be willing to give you 
a trial. There’s old Chilton, who writes articles for the 
Cornhill. If you can type literary stuff with intelligence 
hell recommend you fast enough. He knows a lot of lit¬ 
erary people. It would be interesting work, too.” 

“Yes, I think I should like it,” she said. “If I’m not 
too stupid to learn.” 

“No one’s too stupid to learn,” said Mr. Hengist. 
“Go and put your things on, child, and come along out 
to tea.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 


The removal from the hotel to her new rooms was nerv¬ 
ous work. First there was the ordeal of giving notice; 
then the worse ordeal of tipping the staff, and wondering 
whether she had given the page-boy enough. The taxi- 
driver was surly and would not carry her trunks up to her 
rooms. He and the landlady “had words” and a small 
crowd gathered round to share in the fun. Only Elizabeth 
did not think that it was fun; she longed for someone— 
Mr. Hengist, perhaps—to come and take charge of the 
situation. When you had a man with you these disturb¬ 
ances did not happen, or if they did you had nothing 
to do with them. There was no one to come to the rescue; 
Elizabeth had to bribe a loafer to carry her trunks 
upstairs. The landlady dogged his footsteps, warning 
him to wipe them muddy boots and not to knock the 
paint off the door, or else he’d hear about it. 

Then when the transport had been effected and the im¬ 
provised porter lavishly tipped, the landlady came up to 
Elizabeth’s bedroom and asked brightly what she had 
ordered for her dinner, as nothing had come yet. 

Elizabeth had forgotten to order anything. She said 
blankly, 

“Oh—er—I am dining out to-night!” 

“What about breakfast, ma’am?” inquired Mrs. Cotton. 

“I—well, to tell the truth, I forgot about breakfast. 
I—I’ll bring in some eggs.” 

“Well, as long as I know ,” Mrs. Cotton said. 
“Thompson, the greengrocer up the road, ’as very nice 

215 


216 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


eggs. Very nice indeed they are. P’raps you’ll be deal¬ 
ing with ’im, ma’am?” 

“Yes, if—if he’s reliable. I don’t know the shops in 
this district. Can you advise me?” 

“I’m sure I shall be very pleased to do anything I can 
to ’elp,” Mrs. Cotton said obligingly. “There’s Dimson, 
the butcher. I always ’ave said and I always shall say 
that barring accidents you couldn’t do no better than to go 
to ’im. As to grocers, well, there you are! You’ve got 
Sainsbury’s just around the corner, or the ’Ome Colonial, 
though I must say their new man what comes down this 
way is not at all what I’d call a gentleman. ’Owever, 
that’s neither ’ere nor there, and I ’ope I knows ’ow to 
keep a man in ’is place. No, reely, I should say you 
couldn’t do better than to try the ’Ome Colonial. And 
Mr. Williams, I’m sure ’e’d be only too glad to supply you 
with bread, an’ flour an’ that. ’E’s a very obliging man, 
ma’am.” 

“All right,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps you’d ask him 
to call for orders?” 

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Cotton. 

Elizabeth unpacked, and tried to make her sitting-room 
look more like home. The thought that she must dine out 
depressed her, but if there was no food in the house there 
was nothing else to be done. As she was getting ready to 
go, Mrs. Cotton appeared again, with a latch-key. 

“The gentleman as used to ’ave these rooms was very 
pertickler about ’aving a key,” she remarked, standing 
half in and half out of the doorway. “I just popped up 
to ask if you’d like to ’ave it now ’e’s gorn. It saves me 
’aving to come up them basement stairs every time you 
come in, and reely what with my ’eart and my rheumatics, 
well, there! You know what it is, ma’am!” 

“Thank you; I should like to have a key,” Elizabeth 
said, taking it. “Thanks very much.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


217 


“It’s a great convenience,’’ said Mrs. Cotton. 

Elizabeth partook of a frugal meal at a tea-shop in the 
near vicinity. She bought an evening paper to read; she 
had never before known what a number of divorces there 
were. She read one case till her face grew hot as she 
pictured herself in the witness-box. After that she 
studied the racing news and the report of the debate in the 
Commons. 

She spent the evening alternately staring into the fire 
and reading what seemed to be a very dull book. 

“It will be better later/’ she thought. “When I’m 
more used to being by myself—and when I’ve got some¬ 
thing to do.” 

Miss Arden came to see her next morning. She found 
Elizabeth composing a list of groceries. 

“Oh, my darling!” she said, for no particular reason. 

“Hullo, Auntie! Sit down,” Elizabeth said. She had 
been feeling miserable and helpless, but she would not let 
Miss Arden see this. “I’m making a list. Such an awful 
job! I’ve no idea what quantities of everything I’ll 
want!” 

“If only you would come home!” Miss Arden sighed. 
“I can’t bear to think of you all by yourself. It’s not 
fitting. You’re so young and inexperienced. When I 
think of that man—” 

“Please don’t let’s talk about Stephen!” Elizabeth said. 
“I’m enjoying myself no end. How many pounds of 
sugar shall I order?” 

‘ ‘ Two of each sort. Oh, my dear child, I don’t know how 
you can be so cheerful! It’s such a dreadful thing to 
happen! In our family, too! If your poor mother could 
but see—” 

“Do you think I’ll need any rice? I never eat it, but is 
it used for anything but puddings?” 

“No. And if you had to live by yourself—but I cannot 


218 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


see why you want to—you might at least have come to 
South Kensington. Being here is nearly as bad as being 
out of town. ’Bus 30 is always full, and it means I have 
to take the Underground and then change. Really, Eliza¬ 
beth, I don’t understand you. I should have thought that 
you’d have wanted to be with us at such a time.” 

Elizabeth was silent. 

“You’ve changed, Elizabeth. I said so to your father 
as soon as I saw you after your honeymoon. Only of 
course he couldn’t see it. Men are so blind. So selfishly 
blind. They only care for themselves. Poor child, you’ve 
found that out.” 

“No,” Elizabeth said. “No. Stephen—hasn’t been— 
selfish. He—he was—anything but that.” 

“It’s sweet of you to stand up for him, my dear, but I 
know what husbands are. ’ ’ 

“That’s rather clever of you, Aunt, considering that 
you’ve never had one,” Elizabeth said smoothly. She was 
surprised at herself; it was the sort of thing Stephen 
might have said. 

“It is not necessary to be married to know these things,” 
Miss Arden said, with heightened colour. “And if 
Stephen was not selfish, I should like to know why you 
have left him.” 

“We won’t discuss it,” Elizabeth said. “Did I tell 
you that Mr. Hengist has found an amusement for me?” 

The bait was successful; Miss Arden followed it into 
fresh waters. 

“Oh, that man! I really don’t know how I have been 
able to put up with him all these years. I daresay he 
means well, but his manners leave much to be desired and 
he is far too fond of interfering in what doesn’t concern 
him. ’ ’ 

“At all events,” Elizabeth interrupted, “he’s solved 
my difficulty.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


219 


“What difficulty? If you wanted advice or help, 
darling, I think you might have come to me. I know it is 
the fashion nowadays to go to anyone sooner than one’s 
nearest and dearest, but I am not quite a fool, Elizabeth.” 

“I didn’t want help. At least, I didn’t know that I 
wanted it until Mr. Hengist came to see me.” 

“Oh, so he has been to see you? He said so little when 
I told him what had happened that I could hardly make 
out whether he was interested or bored.” 

“I expect he was bored,” said Elizabeth audaciously. 
“Anyway, he suggested that as I must have occupation 
of some kind I should learn to type.” 

“If that isn’t just like a man!” Miss Arden exclaimed; 
“Learn to type, indeed! Oh, yes, I know very well what 
that means! Stuffing indoors all day over a noisy type¬ 
writer! I hope to goodness you won’t do anything so 
foolish.” 

It was so long since Elizabeth had been in the habit of 
obeying her aunt’s orders and listening to her disap¬ 
proving criticism, that she was irritated now and impa¬ 
tient. It was not thus that she had been criticised during 
the past year. 

“I’m certainly going to learn. Then I’m going to take 
in work—literary work. It’ll be great fun and I shall 
enjoy it.” She expected strenuous opposition; she was 
surprised and interested to see Miss Arden collapse. 

“Well, I think it’s great nonsense, and most injudicious 
of Mr. Hengist to suggest it. I shall tell him so when next 
I see him. And pray, have you considered how you are to 
afford a typewriter?” 

“Mr. Hengist is giving me one.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, indeed! He takes a great deal on himself, I must 
say. It’s not even as though he were related to us. I 
should have thought you might have consulted your father 
or me.” 


220 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“I don’t think either of you would be much good,” 
Elizabeth said. “You don’t know people who’d want 
typing done, do you?” 

“That’s entirely beside the point, Elizabeth.” 

Elizabeth said nothing. 

“Aren’t you going out this morning?” Miss Arden 
asked. “A beautiful day like this! You mustn’t mope 
about indoors. It’s not good for you.” 

How dreadful it was to feel that you would like to wring 
your aunt’s neck! You must be getting more depraved 
than you knew. 

“Yes, I’m going out to do my shopping. If you’ll wait 
while I put my hat on we might walk along together.” 

“I’ll come and see your bedroom,” Miss Arden said. 
“Oh, it leads out of this? That’s convenient, at any rate.” 

While Elizabeth searched in her wardrobe for a hat, 
Miss Arden inspected the dressing-table. 

“Dear me, Elizabeth, where did you get this lovely 
powder-bowl?” 

There was a pause. 

“Stephen gave it to me,” Elizabeth said shortly. 

“Oh!” Miss Arden put it down as though it were red- 
hot. “Is that a photograph of Mrs. Ramsay? I wonder 
that you have that on your mantelpiece.” 

“I’m very fond of her.” 

“Are you, my dear? You know, I never really cared 
for her. We always thought she was rather extraordinary. 
If only one could look ahead! That terrible sister too! 
What is she doing now?” 

“I’ve no idea. I’ve not met Cynthia for some time. 
I see she brought out another book of poems the other 
day.” 

Miss Arden said, “Oh!” very coldly, and inspected a 
pile of books. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


221 


* ‘Those are going in the other room,” Elizabeth said. 
“I’m having some shelves put up.” 

“Ah, the old favourites!” Miss Arden said, opening a 
copy of “Little Dorrit.” “I see you have some new ones. 
Who is Rose Macauley, my dear? I don’t think I have 
read any of her books.” 

“She’s clever. Beyond me.” 

“And what is this? Shelley! I’m afraid his poems 
would not appeal to me.” 

“I love them,” Elizabeth said. “Just the sound of 
them. Cynthia sent me that on my birthday. I’d never 
read Shelley before. Are you ready, Aunt?” 

They went out, and on the stairs met Mrs. Cotton who 
was on her way up to ask Elizabeth whether she wanted 
the spinach cooked for lunch or dinner. Also, could 
“the gal” get into Elizabeth’s sitting-room to sweep 
yet? 

“I don’t know how you can stand that woman,” Miss 
Arden said as soon as the front-door closed behind them. 
“I don’t think you’ll like living by yourself for long, 
Elizabeth. It’s a miserable sort of existence.” 

“We shall see,” Elizabeth answered lightly. 

Mr. Hengist came round with the Remington that 
evening, and stayed for an hour, helping Elizabeth to move 
some of the .furniture. He showed her how to work the 
typewriter, and, very thoughtfully, brought a sheaf of 
paper with him, which he left with her. After he had 
departed, Elizabeth sat down to master her new toy until 
nearly eleven o’clock. A decided bang on the floor above 
made her remember the time, and she put the machine 
away, hoping that she had not kept the top-floor lodger 
awake for very long. 

She soon learned to type creditably, and to show Mr. 
Hengist how she had progressed she typed him a letter. 


222 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Another week, she thought, would see a marked improve¬ 
ment both in speed and correctness. 

Mrs. Cotton came up to her room every morning after 
breakfast to hear Elizabeth’s menu for the day. Elizabeth 
discovered that her culinary powers were limited. Mrs. 
Cotton had two stock dishes which she suggested to Eliza¬ 
beth every day. One was, “a nice dish of tripe with 
onions to suit,” and the other a treacle tart. Elizabeth 
did not think that the two synchronised. 

On one of these visitations Mrs. Cotton ventured to in¬ 
quire into Elizabeth’s history. 

“Mrs. Pearson, what lives in the ’ouse next door, she 
says to me yesterday, 'Well, Mrs. Cotton,’ she says, 'so I 
see you’ve got a new visitor.’ 'Yes, Mrs. Pearson,’ I says, 
‘I ’ave. A Mrs. Ramsay,’ I says. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘she 
do look young to be married an’ all. And is ’er ’usband 
alive?’ she says. Well, I answers her pretty sharp, ma’am. 
'I’m not one to be prying into what don’t concern me,’ I 
says. She looked very silly at that, ma’am.” 

“Oh?” said Elizabeth. “I think perhaps I’ll order 
cutlets for to-night.” 

“Cutlets?” Mrs. Cotton said dubiously. “Of course, 
it’s just as you like, ma’am, but if you’d asked me I’d ’ave 
suggested a nice piece of steak with mash. You see, you 
don’t ’appen to care for tripe an’ onions, do you?” 

“No, thank you,” Elizabeth said hurriedly. “I think 
I’ll stick to cutlets.” 

“Well, if that’s what you fancy, ma’am . . . And 
what would you like to follow? I was thinking a treacle 
tart ’ud go well after the steak.” 

“Cutlets,” Elizabeth corrected. “With tomatoes.” 

“Yes, ma’am. An’ some mash.” 

“Can you do Scotch woodcock?” Elizabeth asked. “I 
think I’ll have a savoury instead of pudding.” 

Mrs. Cotton looked vacant. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


223 


‘‘Oh, yes, I can do it,” she said. “Only the kitchener's 
difficult when it comes to them little knick-knacks.’' 

“I see,” Elizabeth said. “What about Welsh Rare- 
hit?” 

Mrs. C.otton brightened. 

“Yes, that 'ud be just the thing, ma'am. It was on the 
tip of my tongue to suggest it, as you might say. Cutlets 
and a nice bit of Welsh Rarebit to follow.” She lingered 
in the doorway, and Elizabeth wondered what she wanted. 
“My 'usband 'e used to be very partial to Welsh Rarebit, 
'e did. But then there's no knowing what fancies a man’ll 
take to, is there, ma’am?” 

“No,” said Elizabeth. 

“You’ll pardon the liberty, ma’am, but you looking so 
young an’ all, an’ Mrs. Pearson passing the remark like 
she did, I do ’ope as ’ow you ’aven’t lorst your 'usband. 
Not seeing 'im an' you not mentioning 'is name— Well, 
there it is. I’m not one for poking an’ prying into what 
don't concern me, but I've 'ad a bit of trouble myself, what 
with my pore 'usband 'aving a stroke in the Strand, and 
'im being carried straight away to the ’rspital—well, what 
I mean is, I know what it is to 'ave trouble one way and 
another.” She paused for breath. Elizabeth dipped her 
pen in the ink. 

“My husband is quite well, thank you. He is in Spain 
—on business.” 

Mrs. Cotton seemed to be much relieved at this piece of 
intelligence. She prepared to depart. 

“Ah, well, I daresay as 'ow we shall be seeing 'im 
before very long then,” she said optimistically. 

Elizabeth wanted to throw something at her, something 
very hard and sharp. 

“How criminal I’m getting!” she thought. “First I 
want to kill Aunt Anne, and now Mrs. Cotton. Either 
I ’ve changed—or I was always like it, only more controlled. 


224 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


I wanted to kill Father the other day, too. I think I’d 
better go for a walk.” Then she thought how like Aunt 
Anne that was, and smiled. “Funny. It’s only just 
lately that I’ve begun to notice those—idiosyncrasies in 
her. I’m getting critical. Critical and bad-tempered.” 
She paused, staring out of the window. “Over-critical. 
About my people. They’re nice. Really nice. It’s just 
the little, outside things that make me want to kill them. 
Not seeing things as I see them. Annoying. Awfully 
annoying. Well ... if I criticise them like that—Aunt 
Anne especially, because I love her—did I—was I over- 
critical of Stephen’s friends and—and him? Did I let the 
outward things get on my nerves? . . . But it wasn’t 
only that. It was the other thing. Fear. Repulsion. 
Because I didn’t love him. Only as a friend. Other girls 
can’t feel as I felt about that physical side. There 
wouldn’t be any marriages if they did. So if I’d loved 
him it would have been all right. I didn’t love him. I 
didn’t know what love was. I still don’t know. Perhaps 
I was too young. I was too young. I didn’t know any¬ 
thing about men, or about marriage. I didn’t even 
know what my own feelings were. I was—oh, I 
was just a child! How could I know? And no one 
could see it. Aunt Anne, Father—Stephen himself. Yes, 
Mr. Hengist knew. Mr. Hengist knew everything. He 
tried to warn me that day when I was so angry. He was 
the only one. Nobody else thought, or cared, or prepared 
me in the least. Couldn’t Aunt Anne see that I wasn’t fit 
to be married? Couldn’t she have told me what it meant? 

. . . No. Of course she couldn’t. She didn’t know. 
You can’t know if you’ve no experience. But you might 
guess a little. Enough to see that it isn’t fair to let a girl 
as innocent as I was be married. It’s worse than unfair; 
it’s cruel and wicked. Girls ought to be told. Just as 
soon as possible. So that you can get used to it—the idea 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


225 


of it—and know what you’ve got to face. It isn’t surpris¬ 
ing that things went wrong. My honeymoon ... I 
don’t know how I bore that. I must have been dazed. 
Numb. Then when I came home the numbness wore off. 
It was as if I’d had an awful blow and the bruise took 
some time before it showed itself. It was my nerves, I 
think. In pieces. All the little silly things that made me 
cross. The Tyrells. Stephen being late for meals. 
Idiotic things. That was nerves. Then the row. That 
finished it. It was just as well that happened. It made 
me realise. If I’d gone on much longer something worse 
might have happened. It was awful, but it put an end 
to it. Put an end to everything. Spoiled Stephen’s life. 
Mine was spoiled before that. Spoiled before I’d begun 
to live. I’ve nothing now. Only a typewriter. And I 
might have had—oh, I might have had so much!” Her 
gaze fell from the roof-tops opposite. Tears came, and 
rolled unheeded down her cheeks. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


The weeks dragged by, it seemed to Elizabeth, inch by 
inch. By June with the aid of Mr. Hengist she had 
obtained a small clientele for whom she typed. That was 
interesting sometimes, sometimes instructive, and occa¬ 
sionally dull. One man sent her magazine stories, very 
illegibly written. Elizabeth was amused by the series that 
came from his pen. They were called ‘ ‘ The Adventures of 
Colin Cardew, ’’ and there seemed to be no reason why they 
should ever come to an end. Elizabeth followed Colin into 
Chinatown, where he escaped death by two inches, or into 
a gang of gentlemen-crooks where he escaped death by one 
inch, and watched with a cynical eye his efforts to win the 
heart of a perverse lady who rejoiced in the name of 
Griselda Gordon. Colin became a part of Elizabeth’s life. 
She told her family or Mr. Hengist that “ Colin has got 
himself into another mess. I really don’t see how he can 
escape this time. But of course he will.” Miss Arden 
thought it all very silly, and said so. Mr. Hengist said, 
“Thank God she’s learning to be silly!” which Miss Arden 
thought sillier than ever. 

Another man sent Elizabeth articles on abstruse sub¬ 
jects. He wrote very neatly, which was just as well, for 
he filled his pages with archaeological names. Elizabeth 
was appalled at first, but she grew accustomed to it. 

Stephen’s book was published in June. Elizabeth 
bought a copy, and went every week to a Free Library to 
look for reviews. Although she did not love Stephen she 
could still be interested in his work. 

It was in July that she met Wendell. She was walking 
226 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 227 

lip Regent Street when his car came up behind her, and 
stopped. 

‘‘Betty! I say, old girl! Betty!” 

She turned swiftly, flushed, and stood still. 

“Oh—hullo, Charles,” she said nervously. 

Wendell opened the door of the car for her to enter. 

“By Jove, what a splash of luck, what? Get in, Bets; 
I haven’t seen you for ages. Where are you living now?” 

So he knew? She wondered how, and whether everyone 
knew. 

“I—I haven’t time, Charles. I—I’ve got some shop¬ 
ping to do.” 

“Rot!” he said. “No, come on, Betty, you must!” 

She got into the car. It slid forward, up the street. 

“My dear old thing, I’m simply delighted to see you!” 
Wendell said. “Awfully sorry to hear that you and 
Stephen have separated, an’ all that sort of thing. Where 
are you living?” 

“Just off Baker Street. How did you hear about— 
about Stephen and me?” 

“Well, really, I don’t know,” he said. “How does one 
hear these things ? Rumour, what ? Soon gets about, you 
know.” 

She did not know. She thought it horrible. 

“I see,” she said. “What have you been doing since 
I last saw you?” 

“Oh, the usual sort of things. Just got back from a 
month’s fishing. Topping good sport. Look here, Betty, 
I’m damned glad to see you again! What about a dinner 
to-night and a show?” 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—thank you very much!” 

“Why not? Going out already?” 

“No, but—” 

“Well, that’s settled then. Mustn’t go into retirement, 
Betty. Not at all good for you.” 


228 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“I’m not,” she said. “Only I don’t really feel much 
like—” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I say, Betty, do come! Be a sport! Why won’t 
you?” 

“It’s awfully nice of you, Charles, but—” 

“Do!” he coaxed, laying one hand on hers. “I haven’t 
seen you for such ages! ’ ’ 

She wanted to go. She liked Wendell, and, after all, 
what harm was there in it? 

“Very well, I will. Thanks very much.” 

“I’ll call for you at seven then,” he said promptly. 
“What’s the address?” 

She told him. How nice it was to think she was going 
to dinner and a theatre again! 

She enjoyed the evening; Wendell made her laugh, and 
the dinner was exceedingly good. He took her home in 
a taxi afterwards, and parted from her on her doorstep, 
saying that he’d be round to see her to-morrow. He 
wasn’t going to lose sight of her again. 

He came in time for tea, and found her typewriting. 
Mrs. Cotton conducted him to Elizabeth’s sitting-room, 
because it was “the gal’s” afternoon out. 

“Oh, Lord, what are you doing?” he exclaimed, throwing 
his hat on to a chair. “Betty, fancy you grinding over a 
blasted typewriter! What’s the joke?” 

“No joke at all,” she said, giving him her hand. “I 
love it. Sit down, won’t you? I must just finish this off. 
Can we have tea soon, please, Mrs. Cotton?” 

“Certainly, ma’am,” Mrs. Cotton said graciously. 
“The kettle’s just on the bile, as one might say.” 

“Priceless old bean,” Wendell remarked as soon as Mrs. 
Cotton had departed. “Hope you weren’t awfully tired 
after last night, Betty?” 

“No, not a bit. I loved every moment of it.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


229 


“Oh, splendid! Well do it again, what? Am I going 
to have tea with you?” 

“Not if you talk to me while I’m busy,” she smiled, 
typing harder than ever. 

“Can’t help it,” he said. “However d’you manage to 
do that so fast? I love to see your sweet little fingers 
dodging about the keyboard like that.” 

She looked up gravely, reproof in her eyes. He was 
not abashed. 

“Well, I do, Bets,” he said. 

Elizabeth typed on until grampus-breathing without 
heralded the approach of Mrs. Cotton. She came in with 
the tea-tray and proceeded to lay the table: 

“I cut some extry bread an’ butter,” she informed 
Elizabeth. “If you want anything else just ring the bell 
an’ I’ll pop up.” 

“Thanks,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t think we shall 
want anything.” 

“Well, you never know,” Mrs. Cotton said philosophi¬ 
cally, and went out. 

“You couldn’t be dull with her about the place,” Wen¬ 
dell said. 

“One can have too much of a good thing,” Elizabeth 
answered. “She’s told me about every illness she’s ever 
had, and all her relations’ illnesses.” 

“Jolly gruesome. Is Stephen down at Queen’s Halt, 
or is it true that he’s buzzed off abroad?” 

“He’s in Spain. At least, I think so.” 

“Romantic, what? When did you leave him? Long 
ago?” 

“March.” Elizabeth wished that he would not talk 
about it. “Sugar?” 

“Three lumps, please. Well, I’d never have thought it 
of you, Betty. Very fine effort, what?” 


230 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


She was silent; it had not struck her in that light. 

“Tell you what we must do,” Wendell said. “Run 
down to Roehampton and see some polo. Ever seen any ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, several times. At Hurlingham. I’d like that, 
Charles. Only you mustn’t spoil me.” 

“Couldn’t.” Then he started to tell her about his new¬ 
est car, and how he had taken the little ’bus down to 
Brooklands last week to see what she could do. He did 
not go until past six, and it did not seem as though he 
would have gone then if Elizabeth had not promised to go 
for a motor-drive with him on Sunday. 

Sarah and her old friends she had shunned. They 
looked at her with curious eyes, and were inquisitive. 
Wendell was different. You couldn’t possibly be offended 
by him. And after these long weeks of loneliness, what 
bliss it was to meet someone again who liked you, and 
didn’t disapprove of your conduct. There was another 
thing: it was pleasant to enjoy a man’s company again. 
There were things men did for you, like helping you into 
your coat, and holding doors for you to pass through, that 
your own sex did not do. When you were with a man, 
too, he looked after everything; it was his job. All you 
had to do was to sit still and let him wait on you. 

So she allowed Wendell to come to see her, and she 
allowed herself to go out with him. Stephen had intro¬ 
duced him to her; he was Stephen’s friend, and hers. 
His high spirits refreshed her. Sometimes they impelled 
him to say things that he should not have said, but she 
told herself that was merely his natural effervescence. 
He took her snubs well; she thought him easy to manage. 

She found herself leaning on him for support and 
advice. She was not made to stand alone. Little disturb¬ 
ances worried her out of all proportions; it was misery to 
be by herself, bliss to know that there was a cheerful 
friend at hand to turn to. There was Mr. Hengist, but 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


231 


his business occupied most of his time. Elizabeth wanted 
a man who was always free, and always ready to help. 

Wendell put up her bookshelves and hung her pictures; 
he went out to buy cake when she found there was none 
for tea; he was like an elder brother, full of fun, only more 
admiring. She liked his admiration, she was pleased when 
he brought her chocolates or flowers. She thought the 
friendship purely platonic, as it had always been. Her 
marriage protected her. When you were married you 
could entertain men; she believed that firmly. Moreover 
she had been told so many times that she was a prude. 
She would not be prudish now. 

They motored out to Burford Bridge, and Elizabeth 
cried how lovely the trees were against the blue of the sky. 
Wendell said, “Yes, rather. See that new Crossley over 
there? By Jove, she was a fine car!” Elizabeth was im¬ 
patient; she felt that nice as he was Wendell had no 
appreciation of beauty. He laughed at her, and tried to 
admire as she admired. Sometimes he said things to her 
which she did not quite understand; then he would laugh 
again, and change the subject. Or he would make some 
remark that had the effect of making her draw back. He 
would say, I love those stockings of yours, Betty. There 
was nothing in it, she thought. Only the way he said it 
made her shy. Occasionally he was not delicate in the 
choice of a subject for conversation; he said things that 
made her blush. Nothing, really. Only you felt that 
there was a meaning behind, something you did not want 
to understand. That was his modernity, she thought. 
Men were free in their talk to women nowadays. 

Once he told her an anecdote, and at the end waited for 
her to laugh. She did not see the point; she shook her 
head and that made him laugh, in rather a silly way. 

“Haven’t you seen it, Betty? Good Lord, and you’re 
a married woman!” 


232 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


44 No, I haven’t seen it. What is it?” she asked, gravely 
dignified. 

“Oh, my dear girl, I can’t explain a joke of that kind!” 

“I see. Then please don’t try.” 

“You runny little prude!” he exclaimed. “Are you 
really Innocent Isobel from the country, or are you 
Pitting it on?” 

She was deeply affronted. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, Charles. I don’t know 
why you should find my 1 innocence’ so hard to under¬ 
stand.” 

“Don’t you? By Jove, I should have thought the 
reason was pretty obvious.” 

She got up, pale, and with furious eyes. 

“Really? Perhaps you’ll tell me, then?” 

“Well, hang it all, when a girl leaves her husband—” 

“I think you’d better go, Charles.” 

He jumped up, and put his arm round her shoulders. 

“Oh, don’t be snorty, Bets! I was only pulling your 
leg. Sorry if you’re cross about it. Kiss and be 
friends.” 

She freed herself from his embrace. 

“I am cross. I’m—hurt that you could think I’d 
understand a nasty joke.” 

“I say, Betty, live and let live! I didn’t mean any¬ 
thing, you know. Anyway, I’m awfully sorry. Please, 
teacher, I won’t do it no more! Didn’t know you were so 
innocent, that was all.” 

She forgave him, but she knew that he did not really 
believe in her innocence. He thought she was pretending. 
That side of him was the one she did not like. 

When next they went to a theatre together he was more 
familiar with her than before, but careful to say nothing 
which might shock her. He brought her home in a taxi, 
and took her right up into her sitting-room. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


233 


That worried her; she felt that she ought not to allow 
it, but how difficult it was to know what to do! She was 
convinced of his good intentions; his attitude was one of 
sympathetic friendship. She thought, How kind it is of 
him to try to cheer me up like this! She had come to 
believe that she was dull and stupid; even she undervalued 
her beauty, and the fascination of her smile. That made 
Wendell’s attentions more kind, more altruistic. To say, 
You may not come up to my room at this time in the 
evening, was to insult him. She could not do that. She 
had no reason to impute evil motives to him; it seemed 
impossible to part from him on the doorstep without 
wounding his feelings. He handed her out of the taxi, 
and said, Give me your latch-key, Betty. She gave it, 
and he opened the front-door for her to enter. They stood 
in the hall under a faded oleograph, and Wendell said 
lightly, 

‘ 1 I’ll see you up the stairs. Who knows? There might 
be a bogy round the corner.” He took her arm and led 
her upstairs. Within her sitting-room, she stood irreso¬ 
lute, hoping that he would say goodnight and go. Instead, 
he said coaxingly, “Can I stay for a few minutes and 
talk over the play? It’s not late. Oh, I say, tea?’’ 

She always made tea for herself before going to bed. 
The kettle was on the grate, the tray ready upon the table. 
She could not tell Wendell to go; it would be so rude and 
so ungracious. 

“Just a few minutes then,” she said. “Do smoke!” 

He sat down and offered his cigarette-case to Elizabeth. 

“Don’t you ever?” he asked. 

“No. Never.” 

“Why not? Don’t you like it?” 

“I’ve never tried,” she confessed. 

“Good Lord! You’d better start, old thing.” 

“I don’t think I dare. Supposing I felt ill?” 


234 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“What rot! Do take one, Betty! It’s so dull to smoke 
alone!” 

She laughed, and feeling very daring, selected a gold- 
tipped cigarette. Wendell lit it for her, she tried not to 
feel distaste at smoking a cigarette his lips had touched, 
and puffed away valiantly. It was not very nice, she 
thought, and the smoke would get into her eyes, hut she 
persevered. Wendell laughed at her, and said that she 
looked too pricelessly funny for words. He stayed until 
close upon midnight, entertaining her with anecdotes and 
the more amusing of his war experiences. Time sped by 
unheeded, until the aggressive clock on the mantelpiece 
struck the quarter. Then Wendell jumped up, and said, 
By George, he’d no idea it was so late. Elizabeth followed 
him downstairs to bolt the front door. He lingered for a 
moment on the doorstep; she wondered why, and suddenly 
felt nervous. Then Wendell said, Well, cherio, old thing; 
and hurried away. Elizabeth thought, What a fool I am 
to be nervous of Charles. 

When she entered her sitting-room again she found that 
Wendell had left his cigarette-case on the table. She de¬ 
termined to smoke again to-morrow. 

Lawrence and Miss Arden came to tea next day, and 
when Lawrence kissed Elizabeth, he sighed, and shook his 
head. Miss Arden sat beside Elizabeth on the sofa, and 
held her hand. When she visited Elizabeth alone, she 
complained of Elizabeth’s behaviour; when Lawrence was 
there she was staunch in her championship of Elizabeth’s 
cause. 

“My darling, you’re looking so tired!” she said. 
“Quite pale and worn-out. I do wish you would come 
away with me next week.” 

Mrs. Cotton shaking the tea cloth on to the table, and 
solicitously patting down the corners, joined in the con¬ 
versation. She could never resist it; on the days when 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 235 

Elizabeth entertained, the “gal” was not permitted to lay 
the tea. 

‘ 4 That's what I says, ma’am, begging your pardon. 
Well, reely, Mrs. Ramsay’s such a worker, you’d hardly 
believe it. I’m shore it fair goes to my ’ea,rt sometimes to 
see ’er banging away at that typewriter! ‘Well,’ I says, 
‘ma’am, I do wish as how you’d go and lay down for a bit 
on your bed.’ There’s nothing like a good lay down every 
afternoon, is there, ma’am 1 ?” 

“No,” Miss Arden said frigidly. “What are you 
making, Elizabeth? Another jumper?” 

“Rather a pretty colour, isn’t it?” Elizabeth answered. 
“I like knitting. It’s so restful.” 

Mrs. Cotton waited for a moment, fidgeting with the 
tray-cloth. Feeling, however, that there was no excuse 
for remaining any longer, she went out, shutting the door 
very slowly and softly behind her. 

“A most objectionable woman!” Lawrence said. 
“Pushing herself into the conversation like that. And 
why will that class say ‘lay’ instead of ‘lie’? Nothing 
irritates me more.” 

“It is rather awful, isn’t it?” Elizabeth agreed. 
“Stephen would say, ‘She must think you’re oviparous. 

The mention of Stephen was met with uncomfortable 
silence. Elizabeth flushed, and spoke again. 

“I hope you’ll have good weather for your fishing, 
father. Is it next week that you go?” 

“Wednesday,” Lawrence said. Gloom descended upon 
him. “Whether I shall enjoy it is another matter. I am 
almost sorry I allowed myself to be persuaded, into accept¬ 
ing the invitation. When I think of my little girl living 
apart from her husband, and alone in London ” 

“Oh, father, don’t! It sounds like a third-rate novel! 
‘Alone’in London’ or the ‘Trials of Truda.’ ’’ 

“I am glad you can see something funny in the sit- 


236 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


uation,” Lawrence said huffily. “Personally I fail to 
appreciate the humour you appear to find in it.” 

“Now, Lawrence!” Miss Arden said warningly. 
“Elizabeth, won’t you reconsider your decision and come 
with me to Cousin Flora’s? She’d love to have you. 
You know she said so.” 

“Yes, I know. It’s quite impossible though, and I’ve 
already written to refuse. It would mean giving up my 
work, and I don’t want to do that.” 

“Oh, that work!” Miss Arden exclaimed. “You’re 
ruining your health over it. How I wish that you would 
listen to older and wiser advice!” 

“That is the last thing in the world the modern gener¬ 
ation thinks of doing,” Lawrence said sarcastically. 

Elizabeth smiled, not pleasantly at all, but in a set, 
furious way. 

“As far as I remember, father, Mr. Hengist is consid¬ 
erable older than you are. He advised me to take up some 
sort of work.” 

“Hengist, indeed!” Lawrence snorted. 

A week later they had both left London; in an unholy 
frame of mind Elizabeth said, Thank goodness! 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


Wendell said, 

“Can’t shake hands, Betty, ’cos they're all over petrol. 
Can I wash?" 

That was rather difficult, because there was no wash¬ 
basin in the bathroom. Elizabeth explained. 

“Well, but I must get the petrol off. Can’t I do it in 
your room?" 

She flushed. Then she thought, I suppose it’s a reason¬ 
able request; anyway, why not? She opened the door 
into her bedroom, and Wendell went in. 

“Lovely view," he remarked, nodding towards the 
window. “All mews and chimney-pots. Are you going 
to pour some water out for me with your own fair hands?" 

She did so, and he picked up her soap. 

“Topping scent. Now I know what makes you smell so 
heavenly. Betty, I love your sponge!" 

She began to feel uncomfortable. 

“Do you? Here’s a towel." 

“And your funny little toothbrush. Oh, thanks!" 
Drying his hands, he wandered to the window, and her 
dressing-table. “Lots of pots and things. Just like you, 
Betty. All little and pretty. Have you got one of those 
priceless powder-puffs? You know—the beaver ones. 
Girl I know produced one at a dance the other night. Can 
I look?" He awaited no permission, but lifted the lid of 
her powder-bowl. She stood in the doorway, fidgeting. 

‘ 1 Do hurry up, Charles! ’ ’ 

He came to her, and put his arm round her waist, 
giving her a quick squeeze. 

237 


238 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Straight-laced little Puritan. One of these days I 
really will shock you. Didn’t it like me to admire its 
powder-puff, then?” 

“Don’t be so idiotic!” she said, but tempered it with a 
laugh. 

They went back into the sitting-room; Elizabeth was 
excited; it was so delightfully wicked to let Wendell flirt 
with her. 

“Have you seen the show at the Vaudeville, Betty?” 
he asked. “There’s an absolutely wonderful woman play¬ 
ing in the revue; knocks Delysia into a cocked hat. By 
Jove, she is hot stuff! Beautiful too. Shows just about 
as much of herself as she can, without overstepping the 
limit.” 

“How horrible!” Elizabeth said. 

He was not at all abashed, but roared with laughter, 
and would have pinched her arm if she had not quickly 
withdrawn it. 

“No good my asking you to come and see it then, I 
suppose ? ’ ’ 

“No,” she said. 

He ought not to say these things to her. She could not 
imagine why he did it. 

On their way out of London on Sunday they drove 
through Hyde Park. Elizabeth, to her surprise, saw Nina 
and Mrs. Trelawney. They saw her, she knew, but they 
looked away quickly and became interested in a nearby 
tree. Elizabeth blushed hotly, and was silent for a long 
while. For the first time in her life someone had cut 
her. 

Sarah, who met Elizabeth and Wendell at Roehampton, 
was downright to the point of rudeness in her disapproval. 
She went to tea with Elizabeth, and asked, 

“Who was that man you were with at Ranelagh yes¬ 
terday ? ’ ’ 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


239 


Elizabeth did not appreciate that tone from Sarah. 
Coldly she answered, 

“You’ve met him. Charles Wendell.” 

“Oh, that weed!” Sarah said scornfully. “What on 
earth do you see in him?” 

Elizabeth’s eyes began to flash. 

“I like him. He is a friend of mine.” 

“Yes, so it seems. You ought to be jolly careful whom 
you go about with, placed as you are.” 

Criticism of her actions from an unmarried girl was 
something Elizabeth could not brook. 

‘ ‘ Thank you, Sarah, I am quite capable of looking after 
myself. ’ ’ 

“Looks like it,” Sarah said. “Personally, I never had 
a weakness for brown-eyed fops. Furthermore, I don’t 
like his round and vacant face.” 

“Indeed?” Elizabeth said sweetly. “But did I ask for 
your opinion?” 

Sarah glanced at her critically. 

“Um, yes. You’re waking up a bit. A year ago you’d 
have been too soft to snub me. Seriously, however, be 
careful, Elizabeth.” 

“Have some more cake,” Elizabeth said. “I know 
Charles rather better than you do.” 

That ended it. Sarah wanted to say much more, but 
she dared not in face of Elizabeth’s changed attitude. 
All she said was, 

“Funny what a queer streak of obstinacy you’ve got.” 

Elizabeth was kinder than ever to Wendell after that, 
just to show “people” how little she cared what they 
thought. Mrs. Trelawney’s snub had enraged her, made 
her feel brazen and devil-may-care. 

Wendell was delighted with this mood, and became more 
audacious. He dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder one 
evening, and was surprised that Elizabeth recoiled. 


240 INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Charles!” 

“Fascinating little devil!” he retorted, fumbling in 
his case for a cigarette. 

“You mustn’t do that, 9 ’ she said. i 1 1—I don’t like it. 9 ’ 

“Oh, sorry—sorry! Have a Turk?” 

“No, thank you. I mean it, Charles.” 

He laughed; he didn’t believe her; she saw that. She 
knew then that she ought to keep him at a greater dis¬ 
tance, but the gay life they were leading, coming as it did 
after a long stretch of dull, eventless days, had excited 
her. There was risk, too, in playing with Charles, and 
that she could not resist. After all, he knew that she was 
married, and there wasn’t really anything serious in their 
flirtations. Only she would have to be careful. 

She had never been on terms such as these with a man. 
Before she met Stephen her flirtations were hardly worthy 
of the name; she had been too shy. The primeval instinct 
within her urged her along this dangerous path. It was 
fun, and there was no harm in it; she believed fondly that 
it would be quite easy, always, to keep Charles at arm’s 
length. 

In Bond Street, standing outside a hat-shop and wishing 
that she could still afford to buy hats here, Elizabeth met 
Mrs. Ramsay. 

A hand was laid on her arm; a voice said, 

“Elizabeth, are you going to cut me? Please don’t! 
I hate people to cut me.” 

Elizabeth turned, blushing, and could not meet Mrs. 
Ramsay’s eyes. She could hear the constraint in Mrs. 
Ramsay’s voice, and the forced lightness. She shook 
hands, stammering, and saw that Cynthia’s car, with 
Cynthia at the wheel, was standing a few yards away from 
them. 

“My dear, why haven’t you been to see me all this 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


241 


time?” Mrs. Ramsay asked. 4 ‘Don’t you remember the 
bargain we made, when we were watching those adorable 
ducks ? ’ ’ 

Elizabeth hesitated; she thought, You never asked me 
to come. Mrs. Ramsay seemed to read the thought. 

“Oh, I know! I didn’t write or come to see you. 
Horrid of me. I think I’m sorry. Will you come? Not 
if you don’t want to, of course. I promised Stephen I 
wouldn’t bother you.” 

“Th-thank you,” Elizabeth said. “It’s—very, very 
kind of you. I—I know that—and I think it’s sweet of 
you—” 

“But you won’t come. Well, don’t forget that I’ve 
asked you. If you do want help at any time or—or advice 
—don’t forget that I’m there, waiting. Dear me, that 
sounds as though I should sit at home all day, listening for 
the bell to ring. What a dreadful occupation! Don’t 
forget, Elizabeth. I’m—I’m not really—so terribly 
biassed. At least, I try not to be, and anyway we were 
friends, weren’t we? What crowds of people! I can’t 
possibly talk here. Goodbye, my dear.” 

She was gone in a moment, leaving Elizabeth softened, 
and unhappy. Mater was so awfully nice. Not many 
mothers would speak to their erring daughters-in-law as 
she had spoken. Of course she hated you; how could she 
help it? You couldn’t blame her for that; Stephen was 
her son. 

Cynthia let in the clutch with a jerk. 

“Good Lord!” she said. Her tone was eloquent. 

“Yes. Well, I know, darling, but what could I do?” 

“I should have thought you’d have run a mile sooner 
than meet her.” 

“Oh, no, Cynny, not at my age and certainly not in this 
skirt. And if I—what’s the word I want?—indulge (how 


242 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


clever of me!) indulge my private feelings I shan’t make 
matters any better between them. And I want to do that, 
Cynny.” 

“He’s well rid of her,” Cynthia said. 

“That’s just what he isn’t, darling. Or if he is, he’ll 
never realise it, so what’s the good of talking like that? 
He’s miserable—and she’s miserable too.” 

“Oh?” Cynthia looked at her for a fleeting moment. 

“Yes, darling. And so pale and thin.” 

“I’m glad to hear it. She’s spoiled Stephen’s life.” 

“I won’t believe it. She’ll go back to him. She must 
go back to him.” 

“Like a romance. Not she. Far more likely to hop off 
with the Tertium Quid.” 

“Oh, no! Elizabeth would never do that. She isn’t 
that sort a bit. Besides Thomas liked her.” 

“Quite conclusive,” Cynthia said. 

“Moreover, darling—what a gorgeous word!—Anthony 
thinks it’ll come right in the end.” 

“Anthony’s a fool, then.” 

“Not a bit, Cynny. Anyway, that doesn’t matter a bit. 
The only thing that matters is that Stephen loves her.” 

“And she doesn’t love Stephen. A hopeless situation.” 

Mrs. Ramsay sighed. 

“I know. Dear me, how tiresome and awful it all is! 
I’m sorry for Elizabeth. I can’t help being sorry for her. 
She was too young. She couldn’t possibly know her own 
mind.” 

“Hasn’t got one to know. No grit either. Having 
married Stephen she ought to have stuck it out.” 

“Yes, darling, but it wouldn’t have improved matters. 
Not in the long run. She couldn’t have made Stephen 
happy that way.” 

“Nor this.” 

“You don’t know, Cynny. We none of us know yet. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


243 


Since I’ve seen her I feel ever so much more hopeful. 
Because she is so palpably wretched.” 

‘‘You think she’s fallen in love with Stephen when he 
wasn’t there to be fallen in love with ? ’ ’ 

“How quaint! Of course I don’t. Absence makes the 
heart grow fonder. Only more often than not it doesn’t. 
I think she misses Stephen.” 

Cynthia lifted one gauntleted hand and struck the 
steering wheel with it, smartly. 

“Well she may! I can’t think of her without boiling 
over! That she couldn’t see how dear Stephen is, and 
how absolutely white! He ‘got on her nerves’! I could 
have cried when he told us that. Stephen! Got on her 
nerves! My God, she doesn’t deserve to have him back 
again! Why couldn’t the silly, silly fool fall in love with 
Nina? Why must he eat his heart on a selfish, empty- 
headed little nonentity like Elizabeth?” 

“Darling, I wish you wouldn’t. You’ll run into some¬ 
thing in a minute, and we shall be killed. So unpleasant. 
Nina and Stephen were never attracted to one another that 
way, though I must say I did think so at one time. 
Stephen marries a nonentity, and Nina becomes perfectly 
maudlin about a fond, foolish youth whose name I never 
can remember. Which reminds me that I do wish she’d 
get married and have done with it. She’s positively 
wearisome in this love-lorn condition. Another thing, 
Cynny:—If Elizabeth returns to Stephen, it’ll be a very 
good thing that Nina’ll have gone with her horrible soldier 
to India. Nina was partly the cause of the trouble. I’m 
perfectly sure of it.” 

“Probably,” Cynthia said. “Elizabeth’s silly enough 
for anything.” 

“For goodness’ sake, mind this ’bus!” implored Mrs. 
Ramsay. “I can’t possibly be killed to-day; I’ve got 
Colonel Farncombe coming to dinner.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 


At Ripley on Sunday, Elizabeth met John Cary 11. She 
was lunching with Wendell in a room crowded with 
holiday-makers when Caryll and two other men appeared 
in the doorway. She exclaimed when she saw him, and 
was carried back, mentally, to her wedding-day, on which 
occasion he had been such an efficient best-man. 

He came now to her table, and shook hands. 

“Er—how do you do? Very delightful to meet again 
like this. You’re—er—staying in town, aren’t you?” 

“Yes. Oh, Mr. Wendell—Mr. Caryll!” 

Caryll looked hard at Wendell, then bowed, and said, 
“How do you do?” in a voice that was quite expression¬ 
less. He turned again to Elizabeth. 

“Beautiful place this, isn’t it, Mrs. Ramsay? I suppose 
you motored down?” 

“Mr. Wendell brought me,” she nodded. “I mustn’t 
keep you from your friends. Perhaps we shall meet again 
some time.” 

“I hope so,” he said. Then he bowed again to Wendell, 
and walked away to where his friends were sitting. 
Elizabeth began to crumble her bread, eyes downcast. 
Wendell’s voice made her look up. 

“Cheery sort of bloke, what? Got a face like an un¬ 
ripe apple. Who is he?” 

“One of Stephen’s friends,” she said unwillingly. The 
gaiety had gone out of her; Caryll had spoiled this day’s 
enjoyment. She felt that he thought her contemptible, 
and was sorry when she met him again, outside the hotel 
when Wendell had gone to fetch his car. 

244 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


245 


Cary 11 spoke of tlie lake, and asked Elizabeth whether 
she had seen it in spring, when the rhododendrons cast 
their reflection deep into the water. Then abruptly, and 
not looking at her, he said, 

“I met Stephen in Paris, Mrs. Ramsay.’’ 

“Yes?” she said, not very steadily. 

He was silent for a moment, but turned to face her 
presently, and held out his hand. 

“I’m infernally sorry that things have gone wrong 
between you. I hope they’ll right themselves—even¬ 
tually. ’ ’ 

“Thank you,” she said. She put her hand in his, and 
was surprised at the warmth of his clasp. 

“I’m very fond of Stephen, you know. You mustn’t 
be offended at my—shall we call it offlciousness ? Gave 
me a bit of a shock when I met him in Paris without you.” 

“Wasn’t he well?” she asked, tugging at her gloves. 

“He looked very ill. Bodily he was all right, I 
suppose.” 

Elizabeth said nothing. 

“I can’t help feeling responsible,” Caryll went on, with 
a smile. “I steered you through the actual ceremony, you 
see. And, as I say, Stephen’s a great friend of mine. 
You’re not offended with me?” 

“No,” she said. “Of—course not.” 

He saw Wendell’s car, coming towards them. 

“The worst of this place is that it’s so public,” he said. 
“Trippers always spoil beauty when they come in hoards, 
don’t they? I’ve seen half-a-dozen people I know 
already. ’ ’ 

He was drawling slightly; Elizabeth wondered what 
lay behind his words. She would have liked to ask him, 
but she could not summon up sufficient courage. And 
Wendell was coming towards them. 

He did not like Wendell; that was obvious. It was as 


246 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


though he disapproved of him, probably because Wendell 
was with her. Yet there was nothing wrong in going out 
with Wendell, she argued. It was all perfectly above 
board, besides which nowadays everyone had men friends 
and no one thought anything of it. . . . Above board 
. . . Well, was it? She hadn’t tried to conceal anything; 
she didn’t go with Wendell secretly, but she had not told 
her aunt or her father of her close friendship with him. 
She hadn’t told Mr. Hengist either; she hadn’t mentioned 
Wendell’s name to him. Why, she did not know, for 
again and again she told herself, as now, that she was 
doing no wrong. 

She wondered what Stephen would think, if he knew. 
But Stephen had introduced Wendell to her. He was 
broad-minded, too, and—after all, since her life with 
Stephen was at an end it didn’t matter what he would 
think. 

Only she wished that Wendell’s car, with her in it, had 
not drawn up beside Cynthia’s in a hold-up in Piccadilly 
that day last week. At the time she had felt ashamed to 
be with Wendell; Cynthia’s cold bow had made her feel 
hot and wretched. Again she had argued herself out of 
that state of mind. What right had Cynthia to criticise 
her actions? Cynthia of course was prejudiced. Eliza¬ 
beth was very glad Mrs. Ramsay had not been there also. 
You could not help being fond of her; it would be dread¬ 
ful if she bowed as Cynthia had bowed, as to a chance 
acquaintance—no, not even as cordially as that. 

Towards the end of August, when Miss Arden was still 
out of town, Elizabeth again fell a victim to influenza. 
She fought her illness for days, but at last succumbed, 
aching from head to foot, wanting only to sleep, never to 
wake again. 

Mrs. Cotton thought she should write to Miss Arden. 
Lonely and unhappy though she was, Elizabeth would not 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


247 


do this. She did not want her aunt; she thought she 
wanted no one. 

Wendell was away, Sarah, and Mr. Hengist. Only the 
doctor came to see Elizabeth, and Mrs. Cotton. She 
thought, Last time I had ’flu how good Stephen was to me. 
People sent me flowers too, and they rang up to enquire. 
It seems as though no one cares now. Mater sent great 
Madonna lilies . . . like my wedding bouquet . . . How 
heavy their scent was ... in the church. 

It was funny how desperately ill influenza could make 
you feel. You only wanted to die; you could get no rest, 
and the hot August nights seemed interminable. Silly 
to have stayed in town all August. She had never done 
that before. Those holidays of her childhood! Cromer 
and St. Margaret’s Bay, and Swanage where you met 
everyone you least wanted to meet. All that was long ago, 
ever so far away, lost in the past. 

Mrs. Cotton was kind, but how she talked! She stayed 
for what seemed hours, at the foot of the bed, telling 
Elizabeth how she had once had a nephew what died of 
“ ’flu turned to double pewmonia.” It was not very 
cheering, and it was horrible to be called “pore dear” by 
your landlady. Still more horrible was it to lie in bed all 
day long and all night, alone, too ill to read, and too ill to 
sleep. She longed for someone to come to see her, some¬ 
one who would be kind and sympathetic, and bring her 
flowers to put on the table by the bed. Yet still she would 
not let Mrs. Cotton send for Miss Arden. Her aunt would 
say, I told you so, and she would insist on taking her away 
to the sea. Elizabeth did not want that, and pride refused 
to allow her to tell anyone that she was ill. 

Convalescence came, and with it still deeper depression. 
Elizabeth crawled about the house, and later, round the 
streets. She thought then that being ill was perhaps 
better than convalescence. You were miserable, yes, but 


248 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


not so miserable as when you were up, and dressed, and 
trying to pursue your life’s ordinary course. 

She had to think of meals again; that was dreadful 
when the contemplation of food made you feel sick. And 
Mrs. Cotton suggested every morning that she should cook 
Elizabeth a nice dish of tripe and onions. In desperation 
Elizabeth would say, I’ll have fish. Turbot. Boiled. 
When it was put before her she recoiled from it, and 
lunched off bread and butter, and, occasionally, an egg. 
Mrs. Cotton said, It do seem crool to waste all that 
beautiful turbot. In a peevish mood Elizabeth answered, 
It isn’t beautiful; it’s ugly. Mrs. Cotton shook her head 
and murmured, Ah, pore dear! If only you could 
get out more an’ take the air! 

It was just what Elizabeth could not do. She thought 
her legs were made of cotton-wool; they would not bear 
her many yards. Vaguely she felt that she ought to hire 
a carriage to drive her round the Park, but she had never 
done this, and she didn’t know how one did it, or what it 
would cost, or what one tipped the coachman. It was all 
too difficult and too worrying. She let the matter slide, 
entirely apathetic. Instead of driving out she sat in an 
armchair by her window, and for the second time read 
Stephen’s new book. 

Even that wearied her. The book would lie open on 
her knee while she looked dreamily out of the window, 
listening to the muffled roar of traffic in the distance. 

When she had made up her mind to live alone, five 
months ago, she had had no conception of the difficulties 
that would rise up to grin at her inexperience. She had 
imagined that it would be easy to regulate her life. Big 
obstacles there might be, she had thought; she knew now 
that there were none. It was the tiny details that harassed 
her so: small household matters which sounded so trivial 
when one mentioned them. When you were ignorant and 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


249 


nervous these obstacles became almost insurmountable. 
How could you know wbat groceries you would need when 
you bad never done any housekeeping without assistance? 
How could you know about tips when someone else had 
always done the tipping, without consulting you? 

Tips worried her more than anything. Everyone who 
did something for you seemed to require a tip. The “gal” 
required many; if they were not forthcoming she became 
slow in answering the bell, and lazy in sweeping Eliza¬ 
beth’s rooms. 

The worst of it was, you couldn’t ask advice about these 
things. They were too silly. People would laugh, and 
think you a fool, or they would say wisely, Ah, now you 
see how unfitted you are to live alone. Aunt Anne would 
say that; that was why Elizabeth was so anxious never to 
let Aunt Anne know how lost she felt, and how lonely. 

When Wendell came again she was overjoyed. He 
seemed to be the only real friend she had, excepting Mr. 
Hengist, who was so old. 

Wendell exclaimed at her wan looks and thin frame. 
He behaved as though it were his fault that she had been 
ill; he blamed himself for having been away all this time. 

“You couldn’t have done anything, Charles,” she said, 
smiling. 

“Oh, I don’t know! Might have sent some flowers to 
cheer you on. Might have hotted up your landlady a bit, 
too. I say, Betty, you do look rotten! Tell you what! 
You must let me tool you round in the car. Do you 
good, what?” 

She yearned to be out of town, if only for a few hours. 

“Oh, I’d love to! How good you are to me, Charles!” 

“I could be a lot better if you’d let me,” he said. 

“I’m sure you couldn’t,” she answered, in innocence. 

He took her to the river, and punted her up it one hot 
afternoon. She lay blissfully upon many cushions, watch- 


250 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


mg Wendell’s brown, muscular arms at work with the long 
pole. He looked nice in flannels, she thought. It was 
wonderful that the creases in his trousers remained so 
straight and new. He wore a silk shirt, open at the neck, 
and where the tan left off, his skin gleamed very white. 

He was tidy, always. In his place Stephen’s hair 
would be ruffled and wild. Wendell’s remained sleek and 
shining, brushed severely back from his forehead. His 
shoe-laces never came untied, either, and as he never 
thrust his hands into them, his coat-pockets retained their 
slim shape. 

Wendell looked down at Elizabeth, drawing the pole 
clear of the water. 

‘‘Comfy?” 

“Awfully,” she murmured lazily. 

“That’s good. You’re just the right figure for lying 
in a punt. Most women either look all leg, or—or like 
bolsters. You look top hole. So jolly graceful an’ all 
that sort of thing.” 

She laughed, but secretly she was delighted at the 
compliment. The punt glided forward; Wendell spoke 
again, looking across the water to the farther bank. 

“Heard from Ramsay lately, Betty?” 

She was started out of drowsiness. 

“No. Why?” 

“What I mean is—is your separation permanent, or— 
or only temporary?” 

“Permanent,” she said. 

“Yes—well, you’ll be getting a divorce I s’pose?” 

She had not thought of it; the word had an ugly sound. 

“I really don’t know. How lovely those swans are over 
there!” 

He took the hint and said no more. But he had 
disturbed Elizabeth. 

They were slipping almost imperceptibly into a greater 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


251 


intimacy. It seemed natural to Elizabeth that Wendell 
should visit her as often as he did; she hardly realised 
how much of his time was spent with her, and certainly 
had no suspicions that he was taking advantage of her 
loneliness and depressed spirits to insinuate himself 
further into her confidence. 

Mr. Hengist, meeting Wendell in Elizabeth’s room, 
afterwards said, Be careful, Elizabeth. I do not like 
that young man. Elizabeth was indignant on Wendell’s 
behalf. Wendell was kind, and jolly; he was after all 
quite young. 

For how much had his youth to account! Little things 
that he did or said Elizabeth excused on this score. But 
she could not excuse his behaviour when he called to take 
her out to dinner and found her still dressing in her bed¬ 
room. He knocked on the door and asked, Can I come 
in? Elizabeth answered, No; I am just coming. 

“Oh, rot!” Wendell said, and opened the door. 

Elizabeth was fully dressed, but the clothes she had shed 
were scattered about in disorder. She stood before the 
mirror, gazing in open-eyed astonishment at Wendell. 

“Charles!” 

“Betty, you are a little prude!” he said, laughing. 
His glance wandered round the room; he strolled forward. 
“Do buck up, you adorable little idiot! Where’s your 
cloak ? ’ ’ 

She was deeply affronted. Speechless she watched him 
finger the pots on her dressing-table. 

“Betty, what topping scent you use! Hullo, is this 
rouge? Oh, sold again!” 

“Please wait for me in the other room,” she said stiffly. 

He turned to look at her. 

“Why— Good Lord, Betty, I should think we’d got far 
enough for me to come into your room without you turning 
up your nose about it!” 


252 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


*‘What do you mean? Far enough? I don’t under¬ 
stand you!” 

He hesitated, then shrugged, and went to the door. 

*‘Funny kid. All right, I’ll go. Don’t be haughty, 
Betty. After all . . .” Then he went out. 

He was changing, she thought. Something in him made 
her nervous, and yet she liked him. She knew that, 
because when he came to see her she was conscious of 
elation and a certain breathlessness. She wondered, Is 
it possible that I can love this man ? The suspicion 
frightened her; she put it from her at once. She thought, 
I must not see so much of him; perhaps it is wrong. 

Only how difficult it was to put a check on their inti¬ 
macy. It seemed to have grown out of hand; she had 
allowed it to go too far. 

People were talking: Mr. Hengist, for instance. He 
put a wrong construction on her friendship with Wendell; 
it was horrible of him, but did others think as he thought? 
Elizabeth felt herself to be impotent, a straw in a whirl¬ 
pool, swirled away against her will. 

She tried, tactfully, to warn Wendell that they must 
be more discreet. He took her by the shoulders and said, 

I ‘Damn the scandal-mongers! Are you giving me the 
chuck, Betty?” 

All his kindnesses leaped to her mind. 

II Oh, no! ” she said, in distress. 11 How could you think 
that? Only ...” 

“There aren’t any ‘onlys.’ I’m—I’m—dashed fond of 
you, old thing.” 

She wanted to say, You are too fond of me, but she 
could not. 

“We must be more careful,” she murmured. 

She was not looking at him, or she would have seen the 
light that sprang to his eyes and realised the interpretation 
he put on her words. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


253 


“I wish you’d make up your mind to get a divorce,” 
he said under his breath. “Sometimes I don’t under¬ 
stand you, Betty.” 

She did not understand herself; she smiled, wanly, and 
turned away. 

Mrs. Cotton’s manner was changing, too. She said 
aggrievedly, 

“Of course, ma’am, I have to be careful. Well, what 
I mean is in my position, you’ve got to be. I must say, 
a nicer spoken gentlemen than Mr. Wendell I never met, 
but what with ’im cornin’ ’ere so late an’ all—well, what 
I say is, I’ve got my good name to think of, haven’t I?” 

Elizabeth was humiliated. Her cheeks burned when 
she realised to the full Mrs. Cotton’s insinuation. That 
anyone should think her that kind of woman was a sicken¬ 
ing shock. In agitation she told Wendell, haltingly, and 
begged him not to visit her so often. 

He listened, frowning. 

“You’ll say I’m compromising you next!” he said, 
sneering. 

“Oh, you don’t mean to! I—I know that—- Only 
people think such—awful things!” 

“I like that! I compromise you! I don’t see what 
right you’ve got to be injured at this stage, I must say.” 

She shrank from him. 

“Why—what do you mean?” 

He was angry, but he managed to laugh. 

“Oh, I don’t mean anything. Matter of fact—I didn’t 
mean to let it go—as far as this. But you damn’ well go 
to my head—and— Oh, Betty, you know I love you! 
I’m —I’m mad about you. Get a divorce—Ramsay’ud 
give it to you, wouldn’t he? Or if he won’t, come away 
with me! Betty, I— Oh, my God, I can’t stand this 
sort of thing much longer! You don’t know what it means 
to me to wait like this.” 


254 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


.“Stop!” she whispered. “For heaven’s sake, stop! 
You don’t know what you’re saying— You—I don’t— 
I never thought—you felt like that!” 

His cheeks were dark; she was frightened all at once, 
and clung to a chair-back, staring up at him. 

“You must have known! Good Lord, you’re not as 
innocent as all that, Betty! You never thought I was 
just being a * friend’! A man wants more than friend¬ 
ship from a girl like you! You know it! What are you 
backing out of it for now? Because I asked you to come 
away with me? You surely didn’t think— Betty, I’m 
asking you to marry me! I don’t care a hang what people 
say! If you ’ll get a divorce I ’ll wait. Only—if Ramsay 
refuses—” 

“Charles, you must stop! You must stop! I couldn’t 
possibly! I—I’m awfully fond of you—but I don’t love 
you! I—I’m sorry if you ever thought I did, but—” 

“If I ever thought it! Look here, Betty, it’s no good 
pretending like this! Why did you encourage me to come 
here if you never meant anything more than friendship?” 

She could not speak; her knees were trembling; it 
seemed as though he were stripping decencies away and 
imputing evil to her. 

He took a quick step towards her. 

“You were just playing with me, were you? Never 
meant anything? And then when I—couldn’t hold my¬ 
self in any longer you behave like a plaster-saint. That’s 
rich, by God! That’s really rich!” 

“Don’t, oh don’t! You—you can’t mean what you’re 
saying! I—I thought you were just—being kind to me— 
because I was unhappy! I never dreamed—” 

“Never dreamed I was in love with you! And you 
expect me to believe that?” 

Her eyes sank. She had suspected; she had thought 
the suspicion ugly, fearful, and she had turned her back 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


255 


on it. She had pretended that Wendell’s attentions were 
those of a friend only; she had wanted to believe that, 
so she had believed it. 

He laughed shortly. 

“It won’t wash. You knew all right. Well, what’s 
the matter now? Why have you suddenly turned cool? 
What have I done ? Strikes me I’ve been pretty patient! 
You showed me clearly enough what you wanted.” 

“Oh, I didn’t, I didn’t!” she cried passionately. “How 
dare you say such a thing? How dare you?” 

“You led me on! You know jolly well that you did! 
I don’t know what your game was—I don’t want to know! 
Pretty low-down, it seems. I suppose you just wanted an 
exciting flirtation? Well, you chose the wrong man to 
play that game with, I can tell you.” 

She was gripping the chair-back with all her might; 
there was not a vestige of colour in her face, but her eyes 
were flaming. 

“You’re—insulting me! You wouldn’t—dare—if my 
husband was here! ’ ’ 

“Your husband! I like that! You’d better leave him 
out of the discussion. You chucked him, you encouraged 
me to dance attendance on you, and then you talk about 
insults! Yes, and you’re the injured saint! You know 
well enough that this is your own fault. I’d never have 
‘insulted’ you if you hadn’t shown me that you wanted 
me to. Your talk of ‘being more careful’! What did 
that mean, my lady?” 

“You’re horrible, horrible!” she panted. “That you 
should think that of me!” 

“And what did you suppose I’d think? When a woman 
leaves her husband and allows another man to take 
her about and visit her every day, what is a man to 
think ? ’ ’ 

“I asked you not to!” she flashed. “You know I did!” 


256 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Yes, in a way that meant you’d be jolly disappointed 
if I obeyed you!” 

So that was how he read her anxiety not to wound his 
feelings? She felt sick, disgusted. 

“If I’d known what you were really like, I’d never 
have let you speak to me!” she said. 

“All I can say is, if you imagined that I’d be content 
with a thus-far-and-no-further arrangement, you were a 
fool. You’re one of those women who play with fire and 
then blame the fire when it burns them! You got what 
you asked for, and this outraged virtue air you’re putting 
on is a bit out of place! Good Lord, what do you suppose 
people are thinking?” 

She started. 

“Thinking?” she echoed numbly. 

“Yes, thinking. You’ve been everywhere with me for 
months. What did that damned Ruthven woman think 
when she saw you with me ? What did Caryll think when 
he met us at Ripley? And old Johnson, at Ranelagh? 
They thought what I thought—what anyone’ud think! 
And you pretend to be perfectly innocent and blameless! ’ 9 

Her body seemed on fire; she saw Wendell through a 
mist. 

“What—do they—think?” she whispered. 

“They think I’m your lover,” he said brutally. 
“Everyone thinks so. What else are they to think? 
You can bet your life Ramsay thinks so too. If you ’re not 
jolly careful he’ll divorce you. That’ll upset your 
damned virtue a bit! ” 

“And you—” she tried to steady her voice— 
“And you—knowing this—deliberately—compromised me! 
Please—go! ’ ’ 

His eyes fell; colour crept into his face, and he laughed 
uneasily. 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


257 


“I wanted you,” he said. “I was mad for you. 
How was I to know you were so guileless? You’re not a 
schoolgirl. You’re a married woman—who’s left her 
husband.” 

4 ‘Is that an excuse for you to insult me like this?” 

“A woman in your position,” he retorted, “who be¬ 
haves as you’ve behaved—” 

“Go away!” she cried, between quivering lips. 
“You’ve no right to speak to me like that! Stephen would 
kill you if he could hear! You only do it because you 
know I’m alone! You coward, you coward!” 

“Stephen’s far more likely to set detectives on to you,” 
he said mockingly. 

Up went her head. 

“Do you suppose that my husband would believe these 
—vile tales?” she asked proudly. 

“Oh no, of course not!” he sneered. “And you’d be 
able to deny that you’d been everywhere with me for 
months, wouldn’t you? You’d be able to deny that I’ve 
been up in your room until past midnight too! You’d 
try and cheat him as you’ve cheated me. I hope you 
succeed, that’s all.” 

“Don’t say any more!” she gasped. “Go at once! If 
you don’t, I’ll ring till Mrs. Cotton comes! Go away, and 
never, never let me see you again!” 

“Yes, that’s it! You’ve had all the fun you want out 
of me, and now I’m to go. Well, I’m not going yet. Not 
until I wish to.” With a sudden movement he twisted 
the chair from between them and then, before she could 
escape, caught her roughly in his arms and pressed his 
hot lips against her panting mouth. 

His arms clamped hers to her sides; she could not strug¬ 
gle or cry out; she felt that she was suffocating, deadly 
nausea took possession of her, and her taut muscles re- 


258 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


laxed until she lay limp in Wendell’s violent embrace, 
almost fainting. 

Footsteps sounded; someone knocked on the door. 

“Are you there, ma’am?” called the “gal.” “There’s 
a letter for you, just come.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


Wendell had gone. Elizabeth crouched in one corner 
of the sofa, sobbing drily, and twisting her crumpled 
handkerchief between her fingers. The thought dominant 
in her mind was that of all things she most needed a pro¬ 
tector. She saw now, too late, to what risks she had ex¬ 
posed herself; badly she wanted Stephen, who was the 
only man in the world who was capable of understanding, 
and helping her. If Lawrence had been different, she 
thought, she could have turned to him, but Lawrence had 
never been really a father to her, and would now condemn 
her indiscretion in triumph. There was Mr. Hengist, but 
he was after all only a friend, and one of a previous gen¬ 
eration. She knew no one but Stephen who would be of 
use now. 

In wonderment she remembered how she had thought 
Stephen coarse and brutal. It seemed ludicrous, now 
that she had seen into Wendell’s soul. Wendell had said, 
I thought what any man would have thought. But Wen¬ 
dell did not know Stephen. In his place Stephen would 
have had the insight to realise the limit of her affections; 
Stephen would surely not have misconstrued her words 
as Wendell had done. 

She passed her handkerchief across her lips, still trem¬ 
bling. Her mouth was bruised from Wendell’s kisses; 
there were marks on her shoulder where his fingers had 
dug into her flesh. That was Horror. Her eyes dilated 
as she dwelt upon that violent embrace; it was Horror 
such as she had never known; fear of Stephen’s passion 
was as nothing beside it. She had felt sick with loathing; 
she was still sick, at heart. 


259 


260 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Self-hatred and shame swept over her. She was not as 
bad as Wendell thought, but how bad only she knew. It 
was the old fault, borne in upon her this time with 'a 
force that wounded mortally. She had deceived herself as 
always. She had faced only that which was pleasant and 
easy. The ugly truth she had shunned, cheating herself 
into a belief that her friendship with Wendell was or¬ 
thodox and blameless. He had rudely torn away 
her illusions, battered through pretence, cruelly and 
coarsely. 

Mr. Hengist had warned her that one day her cheating 
would lead her into serious difficulties. He could not have 
foreseen anything so serious as this. Lack of moral cour¬ 
age, inability to look truth in the face when it was un¬ 
pleasant, had brought her to an unbelievable climax. 
People were talking about her, scandalously; they believed 
the worst thing possible of her who had always prided 
herself on her delicate purity. 

She thought now, I am not good at all. I knew that 
Charles was in love with me. I pretended that I didn’t 
know. 

She had been wrong from the beginning, when she per¬ 
mitted Charles to visit her. She ought never to have 
done that. She had known that it was wrong even then, 
for she had been careful never to let her relations guess 
that Wendell was in town. She remembered her blush¬ 
ing discomfort when Mr. Hengist had discovered them 
together. If it had been right to entertain Wendell in 
her room she would have felt no discomfort. 

He had said, You must have known. That was the 
truth. He had wanted to know what her game was. She 
had let him imagine that she wanted his love. Thinking 
it over carefully she realised that she had wanted it, or, 
at least, his admiration. She had liked to feel that he ad¬ 
mired her so ardently, but she had wanted to keep him 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 261 

at arm’s length, worshipping. That was unfair, cheating 
again. 

Another man would not have denounced her as Wendell 
had done, but Wendell was right in much that he said. 
Only she hadn’t realised what she was doing until he 
spread the facts before her eyes, and made her see. 

In her overwrought condition she saw herself in her 
worst colours, and exaggerated her faults until it seemed 
to her that she had no virtue left, no honour or decency. 
In shame she thought, I almost believed that I loved 
Charles. If his love-making had been more gentle, if hot 
temper had not overmastered him, who knew but that 
she might have given way to his pleading, cheating her¬ 
self into thinking that she loved him because she was 
lonely and helpless ? In her innermost self she had specu¬ 
lated on her chance of happiness with such a man as 
Wendell. She must have been mad. If she had not been 
able to bear Stephen’s love, how could she have borne the 
passion of a man sensual where Stephen was controlled, 
brutal and crude where Stephen was gentle? The instant 
Wendell’s lips had touched hers she knew that she hated 
him, and was afraid. She had known before, when he had 
said things calculated to offend her. She had known it 
when he invaded her bedroom, and laughed at her inti¬ 
mate possessions. Only she had not chosen to acknowl¬ 
edge the instinctive dislike. 

All those jokes Wendell had made. . . . She hadn’t 
understood them, but she had known that they were vul¬ 
gar. He had thought her coarse enough to enjoy them 
from his lips because she had left her husband. Probably 
he put a false construction on that too. 

That brought her back to Stephen. She saw now, in 
face of Wendell’s turbulent ardour, that Stephen had been 
exceptional in his treatment of her. It seemed funny to 
think that she had been afraid of him on that awful day of 


262 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


their quarrel and parting. She had thought him a mon¬ 
ster; compared with Wendell he had been a lamb. 

And now people were coupling her name with that 
of Wendell: sniggering probably, exaggerating surely. 
They were saying, My dear, have you heard? Stephen 
Ramsay’s wife has gone off with another man! Gloating 
over it . . . glad of an excuse to be scandalous. That was 
what Stephen would have to bear when he came home. 
Nudges, and whispering, and side-long glances cast in his 
direction. It wasn’t only on herself she had brought 
shame, but on him too. And he’d been generous in let¬ 
ting her go. This was how she had repaid him. 

Wendell had said, He’s far more likely to set detectives 
on to you. Would he do that? She felt very cold. No, 
he was too chivalrous, too generous. He’d hear her ex' 
planation first. He’d believe her, too. She thought that 
he would believe her. 

She became conscious of cigarette smoke lying heavy on 
the air. Wendell’s Turkish cigarettes. She dragged her¬ 
self up and went to the window, throwing it open to let 
out this reminder of his presence. Her head was aching, 
her cheeks still hot. She stood at the open window, letting 
the cool air sweep into the room. 

The next day brought a long letter from Wendell, ab¬ 
jectly apologising for his “unpardonable behaviour,” im¬ 
ploring her to forgive him and let things be as they were. 
He had not meant a word he had said; he was kicking 
himself for his caddishness; it was Betty’s beauty and his 
love for her that had made him lose his head. 

She wrote carefully in answer. Their friendship was 
at an end; it would be impossible to pick up the. threads 
again. She realised that she had been at fault; she was 
sorry, but it would be better for them not to meet again. 

He called, bringing flowers; Elizabeth sent them back. 
Again he wrote; she did not answer his letter. A last let- 



INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


263 


ter came telling her that she had broken his heart and that 
he was going to Scotland for the shooting. 

Lawrence and Miss Arden were back in town, Lawrence 
with tanned cheeks and a country manner. Miss Arden 
wrung her hands over Elizabeth’s poor health, and said 
again and again, Why didn’t you send for me? 

Miss Arden tried to discover Elizabeth’s plans for the 
future; Elizabeth, whose mind was in a chaotic state, 
hardly knew herself. 

“Darling,” Miss Arden said, “you must see that this 
sort of an existence is impossible. I’m not suggesting for 
an instant that you return to that man, but you’re far 
too young to live alone.” 

“I expect I shall go into a tiny flat,” Elizabeth said 
vaguely. “I could quite well afford it now that I’ve got 
on so with my typing.” 

“My dear child,” Miss Arden said flatly, “it’s not to be 
thought of. Really, when you’ve got a home waiting for 
you, I can’t understand this attitude of yours. Anyone 
would think you disliked your old home. I’m sure I don’t 
know what has happened to you. You never used to be 
like this.” 

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth sighed. “I’m not going to live 
at home again. I can’t.” 

“Can’t? Nonsense! You don’t want to!” 

The old Elizabeth started to say, Oh, Auntie, it’s pot 
that at all! The new Elizabeth intervened and with an 
effort said, 

“No, I don’t. Not now. Things have changed.” 

“Well, really, Elizabeth! They certainly have changed 
if those are your feelings. I’m sure I don’t know what 
your poor father and I have done to deserve this coldness 
from you.” 

Elizabeth was silent; she was too tired to explain or to 


reassure. 


264 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Am I to understand,” Miss Arden continued, “that 
you propose to spend the rest of your life in this indefinite 
fashion ? ’ ’ 

The rest of her life. ... It had a sinister ring. Eliz¬ 
abeth shivered. 

“No. I’ve got till March to—to make up my mind.” 

Miss Arden raised her brows. 

“Indeed? March? What do you mean?” 

“Stephen said—I might have a year.” 

Miss Arden achieved a shudder at the mention of 
Stephen’s name. 

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it! Do you mean to say 
that you are thinking of returning to that man?” 

“Don’t you want me to?” Elizabeth asked curiously. 

“I? My darling, of course not! You’ve never seen fit 
to confide in me, but I know that he must have treated 
you abominably.” 

Somehow that jarred. Did Aunt Anne tell all her 
friends that Stephen had treated his wife abominably? 

“I never said that, Aunt.” 

“Oh, my dear, give me credit for some intuition! I 
could see it in your face! ’ ’ 

“Then my face lied—like the rest of me!” Elizabeth 
said bitterly. 

Miss Arden stared at her. 

“Dear child, what is the matter with you?” she inquired 
anxiously. 

“Stephen didn’t treat me badly. If—if anyone is to 
blame it’s myself. I can’t go into all that now. If I 
don’t—if I feel I can’t—go back to him—I suppose we 
shall have to get a divorce.” 

Miss Arden had never dreamed of anything so dreadful. 

“Elizabeth, what on earth are you thinking about? Di¬ 
vorce ! Pray have a little consideration for your father’s 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


265 


feelings and mine! You may not know it, but divorce is 
a very disgraceful thing.’’ 

“Oh, I know it,” Elizabeth answered. “I’ve read case 
after case. What else can I do?” 

“There is such a thing as agreeing to remain apart,” 
Miss Arden said sarcastically, and with the air of having 
solved the problem. “It is not necessary to fly to spec¬ 
tacular extremes.” 

“It wouldn’t be fair,” Elizabeth said. “Stephen might 
want to—to marry again!” It was difficult to say that, 
horrible to think of it. But it was something that had to 
be faced. 

“ H’m! I should like to meet the girl who would marry 
a divorce Miss Arden remarked. 

That aspect had never struck Elizabeth; she sat very 
still, thinking. 

When Miss Arden had gone she went to her desk, and 
from the bottom of the drawer in it, pulled out a photo¬ 
graph of Stephen. She stood it on the table and looked 
at it for a long time. It had lain in the drawer all these 
months, because she had never dared to look at it. That 
was rather queer, since she had been able to look upon 
Wendell’s face, in the flesh. Subconsciously she compared 
them, and again thought, I must have been mad ever to 
have preferred Charles to Stephen. His mouth should 
have warned me. His eyes, too. 

She sank her chin into her hand, and still watching the 
picture, mused on her married life. 

She hadn’t appreciated the good in Stephen, the for¬ 
bearance and the tenderness; she hadn’t tried to under¬ 
stand him. He was clever; in his work she had failed 
him. She was his wife, and yet she hadn’t allowed him 
to be intimate with her; she had held herself apart and 
thought him coarse when he spoke of things which Eliza- 


266 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


beth had been taught to consider unmentionable. Things 
about which she had permitted Wendell to make jokes; 
Wendell, who was nothing to her. Yet it was Wendell 
who had taught her to listen to sex-matters without a 
blush; he had spoken in innuendoes, Stephen would have 
spoken bluntly. Stephen’s way, of the two, was best. 

She hadn’t liked his friends. They were all so differ¬ 
ent to anyone she had met before. In time, perhaps, she 
could have learned to tolerate them, only she hadn’t given 
herself time. 

Bridge at Lady Ribblemere’s house. How awful that 
had been! Yet she hadn’t told Stephen. He had been 
annoyed at her reticence. He had said, Surely you can 
say what you really think to me? That was the trouble. 
She couldn’t. Dimly she felt, If I had told Stephen all 
about it, it would have been better. All the little things 
that happened like the Vicar’s wife saying that she feared 
I was not a conscientious Churchwoman. Stephen would 
have said, The cheek of the woman! and we’d have laughed, 
and it wouldn’t have mattered any longer how the Vicar’s 
wife annoyed me. 

If she could have her married life over again, how dif¬ 
ferent would she be! Now that she had known the wretch¬ 
edness of living alone, in town, she could appreciate Queen’s 
Halt, and Stephen. It seemed that she could not exist 
without a husband, even though she did not love him, even 
though she had been unhappy with him. She supposed 
that if you had once been married you could not go back to 
an unmarried state without feeling a void, and a great 
want. 

But if she went back to Stephen it must be as his wife. 
That was the obstacle that stood in the way. It would 
need more courage than she possessed. If she could re¬ 
turn on platonic terms, she would do so to-morrow. She 
couldn’t. She thought that if Stephen still loved her and 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


267 


wanted her he would accept those terms, but they would be 
unfair to him, and the day of unfairness was over. It 
must be all or nothing; she had put shams and pretence 
aside. How hard that was only she knew, but she had 
learned a bitter lesson, and she made up her mind that she 
would profit by it. If she went back to Stephen she would 
be frank with him. He should know that she did not love 
him, so that if he did not want her like that, he might re¬ 
ject her. 

He might not want her; he might have ceased to love 
her. It would be hard to send for him, hard for her pride. 
And if he did not come, how humiliated would she be! 
Then she thought, I can’t be more humiliated than I am 
now. 

Wendell had knocked the pedestal from beneath her 
feet. She had played with Wendell, knowing in her heart 
of hearts that he was unsafe, knowing too that it was 
wrong. And Wendell had shown her to herself as she 
was. Her spirit still writhed under his accusations, for 
exaggerated though they were, each one contained a grain 
of truth. 

Mr. Hengist c'ame to see her, and pointed a stern finger. 

“Knocked yourself up, I hear. You’re losing your 
looks, child.” 

She smiled, but wearily, for she knew that this was so. 
The glass showed her pallor and her thinness; the glass 
showed tiny lines upon her forehead. She had aged. 

“Have you come to scold me?” she asked. “Please 
don’t!” 

“Not at all. I never scold. I merely offer good advice 
which you seldom take.” 

“ Oh! ” she protested. 

“Quite true. My advice now is, Go away.” 

‘ ‘ Where ? ’ ’ she asked listlessly. 

‘ ‘ Where would you like to go ? ” 


268 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


She shook her head. 

“I don’t know.” 

“The sea?” 

11 Oh, no! That means crowds of holiday-makers and a 
horrible band.” 

“Um! You never really liked the seaside, did you?” 

“No,” she said. “Never.” 

“Congratulations,” said Mr. Hengist. 

She was puzzled; then she understood. 

“Yes, I’m learning,” she said. “It’s a slow business. 
A year ago I should have said that I loved the sea. ’ ’ 

“I know you would. You’re getting on, Elizabeth. 
What about a farm-house in the country?” 

Her face lit up. 

“Oh—I think I should like that! Only—it’s rather 
difficult. You see I wouldn’t go away with Aunt Anne 
when she asked me.” 

“Certainly not. She’s the last person in the world you 
want. Go by yourself. Will you?” 

“Do you know of a farm-house that would take me in?” 

“Yes, and I’ll make all the arrangements.” He rose 
and laid a clumsy hand on her shoulder. “Go and fight 
out your battles alone, Elizabeth. I’ve hope of you yet.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 


Miss Arden’s indignation when it was made known to 
her that Elizabeth contemplated a change of air, alone, 
knew no bounds. Elizabeth felt herself to be unkind and 
ungracious, but she could not bear the thought of taking 
Miss Arden with her. In this she was supported by Law¬ 
rence, who said very aggrievedly that of course it didn’t 
matter what became of him, but if Elizabeth was going to 
drag ‘her aunt away he would be made exceedingly uncom¬ 
fortable, and would probably have to live at his club. 
However, he said, he was accustomed to having his conven¬ 
ience disregarded, and heaven knew that he was not so self¬ 
ish that he would expect Anne to deny herself anything 
for his sake. He begged her not to consider him in the 
slightest; no doubt Elizabeth’s need of her was greater 
than his, although Elizabeth had not consulted either of 
them when she made this new, and really rather unneces¬ 
sary plan. 

He wore a martyr-like expression for some days, await¬ 
ing Miss Arden’s decision, and frequently implored her to 
please herself. Then another idea occurred to him, and he 
remarked that it was most unreasonable of Elizabeth to 
want her aunt to accompany her to such an out-of-the-way 
hole as Wood End. He told Miss Arden that there was no 
need for her to sacrifice her comforts and enjoyment for 
Elizabeth. She would not like to be buried in the heart 
of the country at this time of the year; it was sure to be 
damp, and everyone knew that the autumn was a danger¬ 
ous season. In fact, speaking perfectly dispassionately, he 
strongly advised Anne to remain at home. A nice thing 

269 


270 


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it would be if she caught cold in an old-fashioned and 
draughty farm-house. 

So Elizabeth went to Wood End alone and stayed there 
for a month, until October’s red and gold gave place to 
November’s sullen grey. 

The open-air life, and the great quiet of the country did 
her good. The livestock on the farm interested her; after 
some hesitation she learned to milk the cows, under the 
friendly and amused eye of the farmer, a bluff and direct 
person with an enormous beard and bright red cheeks. 

She was somewhat taken aback by him at first, and a 
little shocked. As soon as she arrived at the farm a large 
sheep-dog, bob-tailed and shaggy, bounded up to her and 
was effusive. She hugged it, a lump in her throat; till 
now she had hardly realised how much she had missed the 
dogs at the Halt. 

“Oh, you darling!” she cried. “What a beautiful 
dog! ’ ’ She looked up at the farmer. 11 Isn’t he a dear ? ’ ’ 

Mr. Gabriel smiled widely down upon her. 

“Not a dog, madam. She’s a bitch. Get down, Nellie, 
get down!” 

If your dog was a female you called her a lady-dog. The 
word bitch fell on amazed ears. Elizabeth hurried away 
after Mrs. Gabriel to her bedroom. 

Mrs. Gabriel was fat and motherly. She took Elizabeth 
to a long, low-eeilinged room upstairs, with an uneven 
floor and small casement windows. Chintz curtains framed 
them, with cottage frills. The bed was a four-poster, all 
the furniture old and worm-eaten, Jacobean, Elizabeth saw 
at once. 

Outside, the fields stretched away in patchwork to the 
far woods, and below the window, in the paved yard, some 
Cochin-China hens searched for grubs in the cracks. There 
was a partially demolished hay-rick beyond the yard; the 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


271 


scent of it came up to Elizabeth’s room, fragrant and 
sweet. 

“Oh, what a beautiful place!” she exclaimed. “How 
quaint and fascinating! Don’t you love it?” 

“Yes, madam,” Mrs. Gabriel said simply. “Most peo¬ 
ple do. Mr. Hengist comes here* often.” 

“He never told me about it till now. I wish I’d known 
of it before.” 

“Never mind, you’ll come again—often.’*’ 

“I shall,” Elizabeth said. “If you’ll have me.” 

“We’re always glad to have Mr. Hengist’s friends, 
madam. I hope you’ll be comfortable. It’s not the right 
time of year to come to a farm, properly speaking, but 
there’s always plenty to interest you, if you’re fond of 
animals. ’ ’ 

“I am, oh I am! I wonder, will Mr. Gabriel take me 
round ? ’ ’ 

“Why, surely!” his wife said, smiling. 

Under Mr. .Gabriel’s wing Elizabeth inspected every¬ 
thing, and learned that if a pig drank water it was a sign 
of illness, and that, of all climates under the sun, Eng¬ 
land’s was the worst. 

Gabriel had tales to tell of nearly all his animals. Eliza¬ 
beth heard with interest that the Jersey cow, Emily, had 
had bad trouble in her last calving, and that he and Mrs. 
Gabriel had almost despaired of saving the calf’s life. 
She saw the calf, a sturdy young heifer, and soon knew 
every cow and pig apart. She thought how lovely it 
would be to have a farm, especially in the spring, when the 
lambs came. Then she remembered that there was a farm 
quite near to Queen’s Halt. She had never taken very 
much interest in it, probably because she had been too 
much occupied in dwelling upon her grievances. What 
a fool she had been! 


272 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“I wish this were spring-time!” she said impulsively. 
‘ 1 Lambs are so sweet ! 7 7 

“You’d best come again, next year, 7 ’ Gabriel answered. 
‘ 1 There ’ll be lambs and sucking-pigs and chickens. Spring 7 s 
the best time for a lady to come on a farm. If you 7 d 
been here earlier in the year you could have helped my 
wife rear the lamb we had to take from its mother. She 
had to feed it from a bottle . 77 

“I wish I had been here! I 7 d like to have seen Nellie’s 
puppies, too . 77 

“Beautiful litter,” he agreed. 

1 ‘ Perhaps you 7 d like to have a pup out of her next one ? 7 7 
Mrs. Gabriel suggested. 

“Oh, yes, I would! How lovely!” Elizabeth cried. 

“Well, it’ll give you something to do, won’t it, my 
dear?” 

Elizabeth looked at her. 

“How did you know I—wanted that?” 

“I sort of guessed, dearie. If you’ve no babies, have a 
dog. It’s nice to have something to love and do for.” 

“No—I haven’t any—children,” Elizabeth said. 

“I knew that. It’s not in your face. They’ll come, 
maybe.” 

Elizabeth thought it unlikely—not impossible, but im¬ 
probable. During her visit to Wood End she fought her 
battle, as Mr. Hengist had thought she would fight it. The 
problem of her future was turned over and over; she 
argued this way and that, striving desperately to be hon¬ 
est with herself, excusing herself never, but rather ex¬ 
aggerating the blame that was due to her. 

Mrs. Gabriel was a help; she was ready to talk or to be 
silent, whichever you wished, and when she talked stray 
scraps of her life’s philosophy came out. In a manner 
free from impertinence she asked where Elizabeth’s hus¬ 
band was. She spoke as a woman more than double 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


273 


Elizabeth’s age, and Elizabeth told her that Stephen was 
abroad. They had parted. 

Mrs. Gabriel nodded, banging the rolling-pin down upon 
the pastry. Her shapely arms were bare to the elbow; 
Elizabeth marvelled at the fine texture of the skin, and 
the plump firmness of the flesh beneath. There was kind¬ 
ness in the grey eyes that regarded Elizabeth; it impelled 
her to speak, almost against her will. 

“It was all too—difficult,” she said haltingly. “I—I 
made a mess of it.” 

“I daresay,” Mrs. Gabriel answered. “There’s a deal 
of give and take in marriage, and girls don’t realise it.” 
She rested her rolling-pin up on end, and smiled across at 
Elizabeth. “The man takes and the woman gives. Least- 
ways, I’ve always found it so.” 

Elizabeth, seated on a small table against the wall, 
munching apples, said wistfully, 

“Have you, Mrs. Gabriel?” 

“It comes more natural to us, you see, and a man’s a 
great weak creature when all’s said and done, without much 
more understanding than a baby. You’re to humour a 
man. Lord, that’s what we’re here for! It’s a poor 
woman who’s got no man to manage.” 

“If he can be managed.” 

The rolling-pin went vigorously to and fro. Mrs. Ga¬ 
briel chuckled; it was a comfortable sound, full of 
wisdom. 

“You can take it from me, my dear, the man that can’t 
be managed don’t exist. I never met one that couldn’t 
be twisted round the finger of some woman, if she had 
the mind to do it.” She looked up, and her smile em¬ 
braced Elizabeth. “Bless you, I’ve been through it, too. 
We most of us have, only there’s some as takes it harder 
than others. You start off thinking everything’s like a 
feather-bed, and you find that it isn’t.” 


274 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“No. More like a bed of—of thorns.’’ 

“Oh, not always, dearie. When you’re courting, of 
course, you’ve got it all your own way, and your man’s on 
his best behaviour. He brings you flowers and what-not, 
and pets you and cossets you as though you was made of 
china. You’re the weak one, then, and you think it’ll al¬ 
ways be the same. But when you’re married, it changes. 
Men can’t keep up their best behaviour for long. It seems 
kind of exhausting. The best thing you can do is to re¬ 
member that he’s a baby in most things, and start feeling 
motherly as soon as may be. ’ ’ 

“Motherly?” Elizabeth offered the core of her apple 
to Nellie, who politely accepted it and placed it under the 
table. “Can one?” 

“The best wives do, dearie. It’s a great help to you if 
you can keep it in mind. My gracious, don’t I know what 
a worriting creature a man can be? But, Lord, they don’t 
mean anything! It’s the way they’re made, and to make 
allowances for them is the way we’re made.” 

“It—it isn’t the way I’m made,” Elizabeth said sadly. 
“I didn’t seem able to—make allowances.” 

“Girls don’t. They grow into it, though. You see, 
dearie, a man’s selfish. He can’t help it; he don’t have 
to bear what we bear. At the best he’s stupid when it 
comes to understanding how we women feel. We don’t 
really like him any the less for that.” 

“Are men selfish?” Elizabeth asked. “All of them?” 

“More or less, mostly more. Because they don’t under¬ 
stand. So the woman’s got to be unselfish. Stands to 
reason she must be, or how would she fit in? A man 
doesn’t fit, ever. He doesn’t know how to. You go out 
and look at our cock. He makes a deal of noise when he 
finds a fat grub to eat, but when the hens come fluttering 
round to see what it is, he gobbles it up himself.” 

“Y-es. It seems rather hard—and unfair.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


275 


“My dear, don’t you get thinking this is a fair world for 
women, because it isn’t. I’m not saying that if we could 
start all over again we wouldn’t have things different, but 
seeing as how they are as they are, we’ve made the best 
of ’em, and we’ve learned to fit in as quickly as possible. 
You’ve got to put up with a lot, the Lord knows! but 
it’s worth it in the long run.” 

Elizabeth chose another apple from the basket on her 
knees. 

“I wonder—did Mr. Hengist—send me to you—on 
purpose ? ’ ’ 

“That’s telling,” smiled Mrs. Gabriel. “Maybe he did. 
He told me you hadn’t got a mother, my dear, and p’raps 
he thought it would be a good thing if you could have a 
talk with someone that was a mother. He knows my life 
hasn’t been all honeysuckle. It’s no good talking to 
someone as hasn’t been through any of your sort of 
trouble.” 

“No. I—please, go on. No one’s ever—spoken to me 
like this before. Not—sensible—and—and helpfully.” 

“People don’t. I remember when I quarrelled with 
Gabriel there was a lady living down at the White Cot¬ 
tage who came and talked a heap of nonsense about duty 
and love and I don’t know what beside. She’d come and 
sit here and talk by the hour, until my mother told me not 
to listen to her rubbish, but to get on with my cooking. 
I remember too, one thing my mother said to me.” 

“What was it?” said Elizabeth. 

“She said, * Don’t get thinking Gabriel’s a brute because 
he doesn’t always understand the way you feel.’ That’s 
sound advice, my dear. Men want a lot, and the best way 
is to let ’em have it, as much as you can. It’s easier then 
to get your own way when you want it. ’ ’ She paused, and 
her smile grew. “And don’t forget to let him think it’s 
his way. It doesn’t matter to us whether we seem to be 


276 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


ruling or not, as long as we are, but it does matter to a 
man. He’s a pernickety, difficult creature, and it doesn’t 
do to let him see who’s cock of the walk. Let him think 
he is, and the bigger he talks, the smaller he acts. Let 
him talk. He likes it, and it makes him feel good. You 
see, a man’s got to feel good and masterful, or he’s only 
half a man.” 

Elizabeth folded her hands over the basket. Gravely 
she looked at Mrs. Gabriel. 

“You know an awful lot,” she said. 

“I ought to. I’ve reared a husband and three boys, 
and that’s enough for any woman. They’ve all leaned 
on me till it’s a wonder I’m not worn to a skeleton! ’ ’ 

Elizabeth laughed. 

“No, I’m still fat, thank goodness. People used to talk 
to me about woman leaning on man. My goodness, you 
soon find out who does the leaning! A man needs propping 
up more times than you can count, the great, helpless 
zany! When things go wrong a man turns to his wife, and 
it’s her job to bolster him up a bit, and keep cheerful. He 
don’t bear troubles in silence: he tells ’em to his wife, 
like when his little finger aches. Leastways, he does if his 
wife’s a good one. We keep most of our troubles to our¬ 
selves, because a man wouldn’t understand, though he’d 
try hard, bless him! And that’s another thing, my dear! 
All through your life you’ve got to listen to your man’s 
upsets, but don’t you worrit him with yours. He’ll soon 
get tired of it, and you’ll most likely lose him.” 

“That’s one-sided, too,” Elizabeth said. 

“In a way, my dear. Still, most women want to hear 
their man’s troubles. They coax ’em out of him; he 
likes it better that way. It’s the motherly feeling I told 
you about. You want to be always running behind to pick 
him up when he falls down, and start him off again.” 

‘ * That’s what I didn’t do, ’ ’ Elizabeth said slowly. When 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


277 


Stephen had torn up his work in exasperation she had 
done nothing to start him off again. She had felt that 
she didn’t know enough about writing novels. She saw 
now how little that mattered. 

In just the same way she should have borne with him 
when he was late for meals, or irritable because some tiny 
thing had annoyed him. She ought never to have de¬ 
fended herself; that led to fruitless quarrels. She should 
have let him “talk big,” and coaxed him back to good- 
humour. 

“I see,” she said. “I—I wish I’d met you before. I 
—always thought myself so helpless—beside my husband.” 

“And so you are, my dear, if you choose. If you’re one 
of those as likes to feel your husband’s strong and master¬ 
ful, so much the better for you. As long as you get your 
own way I’m not denying that it’s nice to think your 
man’s a rock. Why, dearie, that’s what all women want 
to think! It’s Nature, and that’s why we let our men mas¬ 
ter us on occasion. But they don’t do it except by our con¬ 
sent, and never you believe it!” 

“I don’t think all men are so—weak and—and easily 
led, Mrs. Gabriel.” 

“Oh, some’s easier than others, of course! There’s 
times when a man’s strong, and I’m not saying that a man’s 
arms round you isn’t a safe comfortable feeling. When 
something comes to frighten you, you’ll run to your hus¬ 
band, and that’s when he’s top-dog. He’s top-dog too when 
it comes to looking out a train in the A. B. C. That’s a 
thing women don’t understand; a man’s in his element with 
a time-table. ’ ’ 

Elizabeth laughed. 

“Yes, that’s so. One misses one’s husband for those 
things. It’s nice too—to feel that there’s someone—be¬ 
hind you—to—to back you up, and—and take care of 
you.” 


278 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Urn!” said Mrs. Gabriel. “I’ve felt that way myself, 
of course. You go back to your husband, dearie, and re¬ 
member that with all his faults he’s necessary to you, same 
as you are to him. And don’t fuss him, when he’s not 
in the mood for it. That’s an important thing to remem¬ 
ber. Don’t be for ever worriting him to change his wet 
boots or to come to bed at ten o’clock. He doesn’t like 
it, and what’s more he won’t do it. Leave him alone; 
he likes to think he knows best what’s good for him.” 

“But supposing it isn’t good for him? I don’t see 
how—” 

‘‘Never you mind. It’s better he should take a chill and 
be laid up than that he should think you a nuisance. 
Once he takes to his bed you’re top-dog again, because 
there’s nothing so helpless and dependent as a man when 
he’s ill. You’ve got it all your own way then, and he’ll do 
any mortal thing you tell him.” 

“Will he? My husband—never was ill.” 

“More’s the pity, then. When a man’s ill, you feel old 
enough to be his mother. Once you feel that way, every¬ 
thing’s all right. You go back, my dear, and give up ex¬ 
pecting too much. You’ll find you’ve got much more than 
you thought.” 

Elizabeth slipped down from the table. 

“He may not want me. But if he does—I will go 
back.” 


Elizabeth told no one of her return to London, but on 
the day after her arrival she went at last to see Mrs. 
Ramsay. 

She was taken to the drawing-room; Mrs. Ramsay got 
up quickly, and seemed to hesitate. It was Thomas who 
bounded forward and made much of Elizabeth. That 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


279 


relieved the tension; Mrs. Ramsay came forward. 

“How dear of Thomas! Isn’t he getting fat? I’m so 
glad you’ve come, Elizabeth.” 

Elizabeth took her hand. 

‘ 1 Mater—I beg your pardon! Mrs. Ramsay, if you can’t 
bear to—to speak to me—I’ll—I’ll go. I know how you 
must feel.” That cost her something, but it had to be said. 

“My dear, I’d rather have ‘Mater,’ please. Come and 
sit down.” 

Elizabeth was pushed to the sofa; she sank on to it and 
began to stroke Thomas, mechanically. Mrs. Ramsay 
drew her chair nearer to the fire, and waited. 

It was difficult to know how to begin; Elizabeth plunged 
headlong. 

“Mater—does—does Stephen—still want me?” 

“Yes, Elizabeth.” 

She looked up; Mrs. Ramsay saw how drawn were her 
eyes. 

“That’s—true? I—I want the truth, please.” 

“Oh, my darling!” Mrs. Ramsay cried, “Does he want 
you ? If you could but see him! ’ ’ 

Elizabeth’s mouth twisted; she bent over the dog. 

“Thanks, mater. I’m—sorry. I’m a lot—older than I 
was, and—I think—a little wiser. N-not very much, per¬ 
haps, but enough to see—how wrong I’ve been, and—and 
how foolish. So—so I thought—I’d come and—ask you 
—whether Stephen still—wanted me, and—and whether I 
ought to—to write to him.” 

Mrs. Ramsay got out of her chair and came to sit be¬ 
side Elizabeth on the sofa. 

“Yes, dear, write to him. He’s in England, at Queen’s 
Halt.” 

* 1 You—really think—he ’ll—come ? ’ ’ 

“Good gracious me, yes! He’ll probably exceed the 
speed-limit, and be taken to prison. You’ll have to go to 


280 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


him then. How romantic! Or isn’t one put in prison for 
scorching ? No, I think you just have to pay a fine. What 
a pity!” 

Elizabeth tried to laugh, only Mater’s madness made her 
want to cry. It sounded so familiar, and, somehow, so 
precious. The laugh trembled into a sob. Mrs. Ramsay 
took her hand. 

“Yes, darling, I know. Just tell me one thing:—Do 
you love him?” 

There was a pause; there must be no evasions of half- 
truths now. Elizabeth looked up. 

“No, mater. Not—as I ought to love him.” 

Mrs. Ramsay’s heart cried, Poor Stephen, poor Stephen! 
but her lips said, 

“You’ll learn, Elizabeth. Only—tell him.” 

“Yes, mater. I—I must do that. He may not want me 
—when he knows. But I—I haven’t ever been fair to 
him—and I’ve realised at last—what I owe to him—and 
I’m—prepared to—to fulfill my—share of the—the con¬ 
tract. Thank you for—for helping me.” 

“My dear, I haven’t done a thing,” Mrs. Ramsay said. 
“Ring the bell, and we’ll have tea. Then I shall have 
done something.” 

“I—I ought not to stay. I only came to—” 

“Darling, I shall burst into tears if you go. I’m feel¬ 
ing horribly lumpy, goodness knows why. Don’t cry, 
Elizabeth. It would be so awful if Mary came with the 
tea and found us melting on my new carpet. I should 
like you to kiss me, if you don’t mind.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


Elizabeth spent nearly all one day trying to write to 
Stephen. Each successive letter seemed more impossible 
than the last, and was destroyed. She could not on paper 
tell him all that must be told; it was too bald, and her man¬ 
ner of writing too stiff. She longed for his facile pen, her 
own seemed halting and despicable. She could not in a 
letter offer to return to him; all that must be spoken. In 
the end she wrote only a short note, asking him to come 
and see her that they might discuss the future. Even 
that was unsatisfactory, but after some hesitation she dis¬ 
patched it, feeling that she could do no better. 

She was unprepared for his promptness in respond¬ 
ing. She expected him to write, suggesting a day for 
their meeting, yet when she reflected, afterwards, she knew 
that his instant coming was more in keeping with his 
character. She sat at the window of her room on the 
following afternoon, and soon after three o’clock saw the 
familiar yellow car drive to the house and stop there. 

She rose, breathless. Stephen switched off the engine 
in the way she knew so well, stepped from the cal* and 
went quickly to the front door, with never a glance up¬ 
ward, to the window. 

Elizabeth heard the vigorous peal of the bell somewhere 
in the basement, and of instinct flew to the mirror. Nerv¬ 
ous hands patted her hair into soft curves over her ears; 
she turned, and stood as though on tiptoe, watching the 
door. A pulse throbbed in her throat, and her fingers 
twined themselves tensely together. She felt that of her 

281 


282 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


own free will she had courted the worst ordeal of her life; 
panic threatened to overcome her; if escape had been pos¬ 
sible she would have fled from the approaching inter¬ 
view. It was not possible. She had to brace herself to 
meet it, frightened, desperately embarrassed, and icily cold 
from head to foot. 

There was heavy breathing on the stairs, a murmur of 
voices; she heard Mrs. Cotton say how the stairs ketched 
her in the wind, her having a weak heart and that. A 
deeper voice, that sent the blood rushing to Elizabeth’s 
face, answered. Then the knock fell on the door. 

Elizabeth tried to say come in, but could not. Mrs. 
Cotton came without invitation, and in a voice which 
breathed rampant curiosity, said, 

‘ * Here’s your ’usband, ma’am. Mr. Ramsay.” 

Elizabeth managed to speak. 

“Thank you.” 

Mrs. Cotton held the door for Stephen to pass through, 
then, reluctantly, shut it. Stephen came in with his clean 
stride and stopped just inside the door, facing Eliz¬ 
abeth. 

In that brief moment, when both stood wretchedly 
tongue-tied, Elizabeth saw the sprinkling of grey in the 
hair above Stephen’s temples, and the tiny lines about his 
eyes. He was pale, and his lips were shut tight in a way 
she knew well. Foolishly, she noticed that he was wear¬ 
ing a suit that she had not seen before. 

Stephen broke the silence, holding out muddied hands. 
He spoke with unnatural matter-of-factness, in jerks that 
betrayed his embarrassment. 

“I—beg your pardon, Elizabeth, but—a tire burst. Can 
I—wash ? I’m—so sorry. ’ ’ 

She thought, What a queer way for our interview to 
begin! but some of her fright left her, and she stepped 
forward. 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


283 


“Yes, of course. I—I quite understand. C-come into 
my bedroom.’’ 

“Thanks.” He waited for her to go first, and then fol¬ 
lowed her in. She remembered how uncomfortable Wen¬ 
dell had made her feel; it seemed perfectly natural for 
Stephen to be here. Yet once she had not thought so. 
She picked up the water-jug; Stephen took it from her. 

“Don’t bother, dear.” He poured water into the basin, 
and began to wash his hands. She saw that they were un¬ 
steady, and grew calmer. She held the towel ready for 
him to use; in silence he dried his hands. Then they went 
back into the other room, and Elizabeth stammered, 

“S-sit down, won’t you? I—you’ll—er—stay to tea— 
with me?” 

Gravely he answered. 

“It rather depends—on what you’re going to say to me, 
Elizabeth. Your letter—didn’t tell me much.” 

“I—there’s a great deal—I must say. I—I am try¬ 
ing—but it’s difficult. There’s—there’s so much, you see. ’ ’ 

“Do I—make it difficult for you?” he asked gently. 

“No. I—I expect it’s my own stupidity.” She smiled 
wanly. “I’m not so stupid as I was, Stephen. I—I 
couldn’t be, could I ? ” 

He did not answer. She stared into the fire, and tried 
to steady her voice. 

“I—I want to tell you, Stephen, that—if you still want 
me—I’ll come back to you.” 

He made a quick movement, as though to take her hand; 
she could not meet his eyes, but she knew that they were 
alight and eager. 

“You’ll come back? You— What—do you mean, 
Elizabeth ? ’ ’ 

She swallowed hard; the colour tinged her cheeks again. 

“I mean—of course—as your—wife,” she said, almost 
inaudibly. 


284 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


He was leaning forward, his eyes on her face. 

“I—still don’t understand. Elizabeth —” he paused, 
then almost harshly said, “Do you love me?” 

Her head sank lower. 

“No, Stephen. I’m—not—cheating, you see.” 

He rose, and went to the window, hands deep in his pock¬ 
ets. How well she knew that quick nervous step, and the 
furrow between his brows! 

“Why do you offer to come back then?” he demanded, 
over his shoulder. 

“There are—so many reasons. I—I think the biggest 
one—the best one—is that I’ve realised at last that—it’s 
my duty to—to return to you—if you want me.” She 
looked wistfully across the room towards him. He said 
nothing. With an effort she continued. “I—want to—ex¬ 
plain—a little. I—you see, when you—married me I was 
so awfully—young and—and foolish—and uncontrolled. 
I—wasn’t ready, and—and I wasn’t wise enough to see 
that—having married you—I’d got to—fulfill my share of 
our—bargain. You—you were very kind to me, Stephen. 
Very patient. I didn’t appreciate that at the time. I’ve 
learned to—just lately, thinking it over. It wasn’t—your 
fault—that things went wrong between us. It was mine. 
Only—I hadn’t really had—a fair start. I—I hadn’t ever 
faced the—realities of life. I—cheated, just as you said. 
That—wasn’t all my fault, either. It—it was how I was 
brought up. I’m—not excusing myself, only—trying—to 
explain.” Again she paused, and still he said nothing. 
“You—you were quite right—to let me go. I’ve done a 
lot of—thinking during these months. I wasn’t fair to 
you before. I—I shirked what was my duty. I—won’t 
do that again—if—if you’ll take me back.” That was 
what she had made up her mind to say; it hadn’t been so 
very difficult after all. 

Stephen swung round to face her. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


285 


“You mean you’ll come back to me because you conceive 
it to be your duty. Because you’re sorry for me. Yes, out 
of pity. Do you think—do you think I could—take you— 
like that?” 

She raised her eyes to his face; sadness lay in them, and 
it hurt him to see it there. 

“I—was afraid—you might not—want me,” she said 
simply. 

“Want you!” He flung out his hand, then swiftly 
thrust it back into his pocket. ‘ ‘ God, if you but knew! ’ ’ 

She was unutterably relieved; everything seemed blank 
and awful while she thought he would not take her back. 

“It’s not duty only,” she said. “All these months— 
the loneliness—I—I can’t live by myself any longer. I 
can’t! I—once said I hated you. It wasn’t true, Stephen. 
I—don’t love you—not as I should love you, but I miss 
you—when you’re not with me, and for my own sake I—I 
want to come back. But—but if you don’t want me, say 
so! Please say so!” 

“I want you so much that—” he checked himself. He 
began to pace restlessly up and down the room. From the 
sofa Elizabeth watched him and knew, now that her fate 
was uncertain, that she must go back to him. Hardly dar¬ 
ing to breathe, she waited, wondering what would be¬ 
come of her if he refused to take her home. He came to 
a halt before her, and his voice when he spoke was hard 
with suppressed feeling. 

“Look at me. Yes. I thought so. You’re frightened, 
Elizabeth. Frightened—of me! Frightened lest I should 
agree to your terms. Aren’t you ? ’ ’ 

The words came rapped out sternly, but they did not 
alarm Elizabeth. She was thinking, How nice to hear him 
call me Elizabeth! I must always have hated Charles’ 
“Betty,” I suppose. 

‘ ‘ No, Stephen. I’m not frightened. Not—as you think. ’ ’ 


286 


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The hardness went out of him; he knelt, and she thought 
that she heard him sigh. He laid a firm, reassuring hand 
over her fingers, and held them tightly. 

41 Oh, my darling, my darling! ’ ’ he said huskily, just as 
he might have said it a year ago. His head went down, his 
lips touched her sleeve. “I know—and I’m—grateful. 
You needn’t be frightened; I love you too much to accept 
your terms. If you come back to me it will be platonically. 
There shall never be anything more than—friendship be¬ 
tween us, until you wish it. Perhaps—that way—you’ll 
learn to care. You’ll only learn—to hate me—the other 
way. ’ ’ 

Something within her chest seemed to swell and grow 
warm; she had thought this man a monster. Her fingers 
moved under his and clasped them. 

1 ‘ That would be cheating still, Stephen. Not—fair.” 

“No, sweetheart, because I know where I stand. We’ve 
wiped out the old bargain and made a new one. Mine are 
the only terms on which I’ll take you home.” 

She looked at him in wonderment. Shyly she said. 

41 Can—you—bear those—terms ? ’ ’ 

He was surprised; for her to have said that showed that 
she had changed indeed. 

“I must, ’Lisbeth. I don’t pretend—that it’ll be easy, 
but I can’t live—without you. I’ve—I’ve been through 
hell and I’ll be content—with just your—companionship. 
I can do nothing without you. I—” The words choked in 
his throat. Again he kissed her wrist. 

“You make me ashamed,” she said, very low. “I—oh, 
you make me ashamed /” 

‘ ‘ There’s no need for you to be that, my darling. When 
you’ve—dreaded final—separation—as I’ve dreaded it— 
this compact seems—a great deal. More than I expected. 
Only—think it over, ’Lisbeth, out of fairness to yourself. 
It wasn’t only the—physical part that upset you. It was 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


287 


everything. You couldn’t stand things I did and said; I 
got on your nerves. Won’t that happen again, however 
hard I try to prevent it ? ” 

There was a rush of tears to her eyes. 

“Ah, don’t, Stephen! I’ve learned better ways, truly I 
have! Living alone has taught me—so much! I’ll be 
thankful for anything now—not criticising or letting my¬ 
self be intolerant over the tiny details that don’t matter. 
You see, I’ve discovered that they don’t. I’m not saying 
this—out of impulse; I’ve thought and thought, and I 
know what I’m about this time. I’ve—had my eyes—thor¬ 
oughly opened.” 

“Then come, Elizabeth,” he said. “My—beautiful 
Elizabeth! ’ ’ 

There was more yet to be told; she would not shirk that 
task. 

“Let me get up, Stephen. There’s something else. 
You’ve—got to—hear it.” 

He rose at once, and it seemed to her that the haggard 
look crept back into his face. She came tremblingly to 
her feet, and stared resolutely up at him. 

“About—Charles,” she said, with an effort. 

The lids closed over his eyes for an instant; she saw him 
square his shoulders, in readiness for a blow. 

“You may not want me—I—you probably heard—things. 
People—talked. I let—him make—love to me. I—it was 
wrong, wicked—only I was—so lonely, and—and I thought 
that he was nice—and—” 

He took a swift step towards her, brow lowering, eyes 
dark with suspicious anger. 

‘ ‘ What did he do to you ? Tell me, Elizabeth! Tell me 
at once! What did he do ? ” 

The savagery in his voice sent a thrill through her. 

“Oh, no, Stephen! Nothing! I—oh, you didn’t think 
he was—was—my lover?” 


288 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“No!” 

She drew a deep breath of relief. 

“He wasn’t, Stephen. But—he—might have been. 
That’s what I must tell you. If he hadn’t shown—him¬ 
self to me—as he was—I might have gone away with him. 
I don’t know. It never got further than a—vulgar flirta¬ 
tion, but I—I let him take me out, and—and all sorts of 
things. Horrid things. I let him make love to me. I—I 
wanted him to. Do—do you still want me—now that— 
you know?” 

She thought he was going to take her in his arms, but 
he only put his hands on her shoulders. 

“Could you doubt me, ’Lisbeth? As if that would 
count! ’ ’ 

She bowed her head. 

“I didn’t—know. I—I beg your pardon.” 

There was a little silence. When Stephen spoke again 
it was lightly; she knew that Wendell, all thought of him, 
had been swept from their lives. 

“The Halt is waiting for you, ’Lisbeth. When will you 
come?” 

“As soon as you like, Stephen.” 

“My darling, that’s now. Can you manage it?” 

“lean, yes. But I haven’t seen Father or Aunt yet. I 
think I ought to tell them first. It doesn’t matter, of 
course, but they’d be hurt if I didn’t. And—I’d like to 
see Mater, too. She’s been—wonderful to me.” 

“To-morrow then? After lunch?” 

“Yes, I could be ready by then, if I pack now. Only 
what about Mrs. Cotton, Stephen? Won’t she object?” 

“Who the devil’s Mrs. Cotton?” he demanded. 

She laughed. 

“My landlady. She’s so awful, Stephen! She calls me 
‘pore dear.’ At least, she did when I had ’flu.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


289 


“You’ve had ’flu again?” lie said quickly. “Here? 
Who looked after you?” 

“No one. Mrs. Cotton.” 

“But, my darling!” Stephen exclaimed in concern. 
“Where was your aunt?” 

“Away. I didn’t want her. I was all right.” 

“All right! I ought never to have let you live alone! 
You’re not fit to take care of yourself, ’Lisbeth.” 

“No, I don’t think I am. I never know what to do in 
hotels, or things like that. That reminds me, won’t Mrs. 
Cotton want a week’s notice?” 

“Not if I pay her the full week. Never mind about that; 
I ’ll attend to it. All you have to do is to pack your things, 
and see your people. You can leave everything else to 
me.” 

“Oh, I think I’d better—” 

“Everything else to me,” Stephen repeated firmly. 

A man’s got to feel good and masterful, or he’s only half 
a man, had said Mrs. Gabriel. Elizabeth smiled a little. 
“Very well, Stephen! Thank you.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 


When Stephen came to fetch Elizabeth next day he asked 
her whether she would rather go to Paris than to Queen’s 
Halt. 

“Darling, I’ve been thinking about it, and I wonder 
whether you’d like to go abroad instead of into the country? 
You didn’t like the Halt in the winter, did you? So if 
you’d prefer—” 

“But I shouldn’t, Stephen. Thank you very much. I 
want to go back to the Halt. I need it. ’ ’ 

His eyes brightened. 

“Sure?” 

‘ ‘ Quite sure. Quite ready too. ’ ’ 

“Oh, splendid, Elizabeth! You saw your people?” 

“Yes. They were glad, I think. Auntie cried. I 
don’t know why.” 

“My dear, your aunt—” He stopped, remembering 
that she would brook no criticism of her relatives. 

“I know,” Elizabeth said. “She always does. Say 
what you like, Stephen. You must. Anything that comes 
into your head.” 

He stared at her. 

“You wouldn’t like it if I did, Elizabeth.” 

“No, perhaps not, at first. But I’m going to get used 
to it. I’ve—I’ve come to the conclusion that reticence— 
is rather dangerous. We’ll be quite frank with each other 
now. I’m learning a lot, aren’t I? Unlearning a lot too. 
I’ve got into the way of thinking quite honestly to myself. 
One does if one’s alone. Oh, Mrs. Cotton thinks you’re a 
real gentleman! She said so!” 

290 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


291 


“How flattering!” he said. “Are you going to bid her 
a fond farewell now ? Shall I lend you my handkerchief ? ’’ 

“Oh, I shan’t cry as much as that!” she smiled. 

They came home in the twilight and drove up the avenue 
to the house under damp trees, and over rotting leaves. 
Lights gleamed in the windows; somewhere a dog barked, 
not a challenge, but a welcome. Elizabeth saw the wolf¬ 
hound bound out to meet them, and Flo, the cocker, and a 
great gladness rose in her throat. Dumbly she alighted, 
and stood still, looking about her, marvelling that every¬ 
thing should be still untroubled here, and the same. The 
flower-beds gleamed wet and dark; through the dusk she 
saw chrysanthemums, golden and red and white; at her 
feet were pale Christmas roses; behind her stood the house 
glowing warm from many lights, protective, she thought, 
her home. 

Stephen’s hand on her arm; his voice in her ear: 

“My dear?” 

“It is beautiful,” she said. “Even in winter. Why 
didn’t I see that before?” 

“I don’t know, ’Lisbeth. Perhaps you hadn’t learned 
to see.” 

“All my life,” Elizabeth said slowly, “I’ve been blind. 
A fool. Just a fool. Oh . . . Nana! ’ ’ 

Nana came out of the open door. She waited a moment, 
then quietly she said, 

“Good evening, madam. This is a great day for the 
Halt.” 

Elizabeth stepped forward, and held out her hand. 

“It’s a great day for me, Nana. A fresh start.” 

“That’s good, madam. We’ve missed you.” 

Jerry, the Airedale, came racing round the corner of the 
house to throw himself upon Elizabeth; Stephen let go the 
wolf-hound’s collar, and Elizabeth, laughing, dishevelled, 
was lost under the violent welcome of the dogs. 


292 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Dinner in the panelled dining-room that evening was 
rather a silent meal, but across the table Stephen could see 
Elizabeth’s eyes shining in content. 

Candles, orange shaded, cast a warm light over the pol¬ 
ished table; the silver sparkled, and the glass; a great bowl 
of hothouse carnations stood in the middle of the table, 
trailing asparagus fern about it. A carnation was tucked 
into Elizabeth’s napkin; she fastened it in her dress, and 
smiled her thanks to Stephen. 

* ‘After lodging-houses this—” her gesture embraced all 
the room—“is very comforting.” Her eyes twinkled. 
“I’m looking forward to my own bed to-night. At Mrs. 
Cotton’s I had to arrange myself amongst the bumps.” 

“Poor ’Lisbeth!” Stephen said. “You shall stay in bed 
all day.” 

“Oh, no!” she said. “I shall get up very early and go 
and see the ducks. Oh, and Stephen!—could I have a cow 
one day?” 

“A cow?” he asked, puzzled. “What for?” 

“For fun. Two cows. One might be lonely. I’ve been 
staying on a farm, and I learned to milk them. I’d like a 
pig, too, please. Yes, and a pet lamb. Or would the dogs 
kill it?” 

“We can teach them to leave it alone,” he said, with 
twitching'lips. Then his amusement got the better of him. 
‘ ‘ Oh, Elizabeth, you funny kid! Are you going to start a 
farm ? ’ ’ 

“We’ll see,” she said profoundly. “If I did, we’d have 
to have more land. I don’t think the neighbours would 
approve, would they?” 

“Do we care?” he asked. 

She considered. 

“You don’t,” she said. “I—well, do I?” 

“A bit. You’ll learn to send them to the devil, same as 
I do.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


293 


“I wonder?” Elizabeth said. 

She awoke next morning early, and lay for some time rev¬ 
elling in her surroundings. She was dressed and down¬ 
stairs long before Stephen had moved. He came down to 
find her with her hands full of winter daisies, flushed and 
bright-eyed. He did not kiss her, although he knew she 
would have permitted it, but laid his hands on her shoul¬ 
ders, and huskily said, 

‘ ‘ The utter bliss—to see you here! ’’ 

She blushed, and bent her head over the flowers. 

“Aren’t they beautiful, Stephen?” 

“And you,” he said. 

“Also the smell of the coffee,” Elizabeth remarked. 
“Let’s have breakfast now; I’m famishing.” 

Over breakfast he said carelessly, 

“You know Nina’s going to be married next month?” 

“No! Good gracious, I thought— Whom to?” 

“Young Hemingway. They sail for India in January. 
Hemingway thinks everything Nina does is perfect. Even 
that extraordinary novel. Do you remember it?” 

Of course she remembered. How she had hated it, and 
the endless discussions concerning it. Now she laughed, 
and nodded. 

“Yes. She would read it to you. It was awfully silly, 
you know. I didn’t know much about it at the time, but 
now I realise that no girl would have said the sort of things 
Jasmine said when Horace asked her to go away with him. 
By the way, Stephen, what are you writing now ? I loved 
‘Caraway Seeds.’ ” 

“Really?” he said eagerly. 

“Yes. I didn’t appreciate it at first, but I’ve read it 
three times now. What about the new book?” 

He shrugged despairingly. 

“It wouldn’t come. It will now that I’ve got you 
again.” 


294 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Isn’t any of it written?” 

“Oh, a page or two.” 

She leaned forward. 

“Give them to me to-day, will you, Stephen?” 

“What for?” he asked. “They’re no good.” 

“Nevermind. I want them.” 

“All right, but what’s the idea?” 

She smiled mysteriously. 

“You’ll see. I’m going to present you with a sample.” 

He was thoroughly intrigued. 

“Sample of what?” 

‘ 1 Don’t be so inquisitive. I ’ll show you when it’s done. ’ ’ 

He shook his head. 

“I wish I knew what you were getting at,” he said. 

After breakfast Elizabeth went to Nana’s room, and 
stayed there for a.long time, talking. At the end of their 
conversation they shook hands, and Nana said, 

“It will be quite different this time, madam, if we can 
work together.” Then she spoke in her usual tone, and 
said sharply, “And I hope to goodness you’re not thinking 
of walking to the village in those thin shoes, madam. You’ll 
catch your death of cold if you do.” 

Elizabeth knew then that Nana had accepted her at last. 
She changed her shoes, and, armed with a basket, went with 
the dogs into the village. 

The sight of Lady Ribblemere emerging from the 
butcher’s shop, sent the blood racing to her cheeks. Her 
first impulse was to turn and run away; she conquered it, 
and went on, head held high. 

“Dear me, if it is not Mrs. Ramsay!” exclaimed Lady 
Ribblemere. “I had no idea you were back. And where 
have you been all this time, I wonder? There were some 
very strange stories afloat, but I paid very little heed to 
them. I always think rumours so untrustworthy.” 

Elizabeth looked her full in the face. 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


295 


“Stephen and I have been living apart,” she said clearly. 
“So I expect the rumours you heard were true.” 

Lady Ribblemere became uncomfortable, and somewhat 
flustered. 

“Living apart, my dear! I hope that is all over now? 
Such a dreadful thing! Ah, I see you have the dogs with 
you! I do not think I have ever seen so large a dog as 
Hector. I hope you will have no fights. I always think 
a dog-fight such a terrible thing. And how is Stephen ? ’ ’ 

“He’s quite well, thank you.” 

“What a merciful thing! And his dear mother ? I have 
not seen her for quite an age.” 

“She’s well too. All the family is flourishing.” 

Evidently Lady Ribblemere was disappointed at having 
her solicitous enquiries cut short, for after a moment’s in¬ 
decision she turned away, and said vaguely, 

“Well, I must be trotting off. I will come and call on 
you again one day next week and we will have another 
little talk.” 

In the grocer’s shop Elizabeth walked straight into the 
Vicar’s wife, who exclaimed loudly, and stepped back to 
inspect her. 

“Good gracious, I thought you were in town!” she said, 
in piercing tones. “Mrs. Trelawney saw you there with 
some man. So you and Mr. Ramsay haven’t separated 
after all? What an extraordinary thing!” 

“That we haven’t separated?” Elizabeth asked, seeth¬ 
ing with inward indignation. 

Mrs. Edmondston gave vent to a shrill laugh. 

“What queer things you do say, dear Mrs. Ramsay! No, 
really, I’m so delighted to find that all is well with you. 
One heard such strange rumours. How glad the Vicar will 
be when I tell him! He was most upset when he heard that 
one of his flock had gone astray. He always thinks of the 
people here as his flock. Such a charming idea, isn’t it? 


296 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


He will be overjoyed. He is so conscientious, you know. 
But I suppose I should not say that, being his wife. Per¬ 
haps you and he will have a little talk one day. He is so 
sympathetic.” 

Elizabeth smiled coldly, but said nothing. When she 
returned to the Halt she found Stephen in the library, 
writing. Remembering how she had annoyed him before 
by creeping about for fear of disturbing him, she went 
boldly in, and proceeded to let fly. 

“I am to have a talk with the dear Vicar, because he’s 
so sympathetic, and I am one of his flock. And isn’t it 
an extraordinary thing that we haven’t separated after 
all? The dear Vicar was so upset.” 

Stephen put down his pen. 

“Shall I go and knock his teeth down his throat? 
Blasted impertinence! Elizabeth, you look such a darling 
when you’re angry.” 

She laughed. 

“It wasn’t the Vicar. He wouldn’t have said such 
things; he’s nice. It was his—his—I can’t think of a bad 
enough word—his abominable, beastly, inquisitive pig of 
a wife.” 

“Why didn’t you throw a bloater at her?” asked Ste¬ 
phen, seeing them in her basket. 

“Oh, what an awful idea!” cried Elizabeth, bubbling 
over. “Fancy her astonishment.” Then she thought that 
she would make fun of Lady Ribblemere too, to make 
Stephen laugh. 

He did laugh; he said she was a wonderful mimic. She 
went away thinking, How easy it is! Why didn’t I do all 
this before? 

She went to him proudly that evening, and laid a type¬ 
written copy of the beginning of his manuscript before him. 
He stared at it, and then at her. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


297 


“‘What—who?” He picked the sheet up. “ ’Lisbeth, 
you didn’t do this, surely?” 

‘‘Yes, I did,” she said. “That’s the sample. Will you 
take me on?” 

He jumped up. 

“My darling, how wonderful of you! When did you 
learn?” 

“Months ago. Mr. Hengist gave me a Remington. I’ve 
been taking in typing.” 

That didn’t please Stephen. His chin went up aggres¬ 
sively. 

“What for?” 

“Oh—amusement!” she said, watching him. 

“Were you paid for it?” 

“Of course I was.” 

He looked down at her sternly; she thought, He’s be¬ 
ing masterful. 

“You needed the money?” 

“Y-es.” 

“So sooner than touch mine you—took in typing!” 

“I’m very sorry,” she said meekly. “I don’t see wny 
you should mind, though.” 

“Oh, Elizabeth, of course I mind! It—it galls me hor¬ 
ribly!” 

She hung her head, but contrived still to watch his face. 

“Well, I won’t do it any more if you’d rather I didn’t,” 
she said dutifully. 

‘ ‘ Certainly you will do no more, ’ ’ Stephen said severely. 
“I know now why you look so run down and tired.” 

She suppressed a smile. 

“That was ’flu, Stephen.” 

“Due to pounding away at a typewriter,” he said. 

‘ ‘ But Stephen, can’t I do your typing ? ” she asked. ‘ ‘ I 
was looking forward to that so much.” 


298 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“No, darling/’ Stephen answered firmly. “It’s not fit 
for you.” 

Elizabeth was beginning to enjoy herself; this was an in¬ 
teresting game. She tried the effect of a sigh, quite a 
small one. 

“I thought—it would give me such an interest in your 
work,” she murmured. “But perhaps I don’t type well 
enough ?’ ’ 

“It’s not that a bit!” he said quickly. “You type 
beautifully! How ever you could unravel my writing 
beats me!” 

She went closer to him. 

“I loved doing it, Stephen. If I promise not to tire 
myself, won’t you let me?” 

He was weakening, she could see that. He looked at 
her uncertainly. 

“You’d get so sick of it, ’Lisbeth.” 

“I’ll stop if I do. But I like typing.” 

“Well, if I let you, it must only be my stuff. I won’t 
have you slaving over other people’s work.” 

* 1 Oh no, Stephen, of course not! ’ ’ 

“I’ll let you do it as long as you don’t overtire your¬ 
self,” Stephen said, with the air of one making a great 
concession. 

“Thank you, Stephen,” Elizabeth said demurely. 

That incident, trivial though it was, seemed to make a 
difference to her. She had discovered how to manage 
Stephen; she was secretly elated; she had been wily, and 
had gained her point. 

Stephen was late for lunch next day. His worried 
apology touched her; almost she felt maternal. She said, 
It doesn’t matter, and for the first time in her life really 
felt that it didn’t. 

Stephen’s attitude puzzled her. There was very little 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


299 


of the lover in his demeanour, except sometimes when he 
looked at her. The expression in his eyes then made her 
drop her own quickly; it disturbed her, because it told 
her so much. In his manner was sometimes constraint, 
but mostly he preserved an attitude of protective friend¬ 
liness. Never once did he attempt an embrace or refer to 
their unnatural existence, but she knew that it was in his 
mind, that he was watching her, and waiting. 

Her part was difficult to play. She felt that all the 
time she was behaving in a manner not her own, and it 
was a strain on her. Yet it was becoming more easy, bit 
by bit, made easy, no doubt, by the guard he set upon his 
temper and his frank tongue. 

But his temper could not always be controlled. Hard 
at work on his novel he would grow tired and irritable 
and snappy. In the old days Elizabeth would have shown 
her hurt and her indignation; now she remembered the 
words of Mrs. Gabriel, and tried to be patient. 

He lost a sheaf of papers containing notes for his book. 
That was everybody’s fault but his own. He upset his 
drawers in search of the notes, and when Elizabeth came 
in, greeted her in a tone of rampant exasperation. 

“Ah!” he said. His tone said, Here is the culprit! 
“There seems to be a conspiracy in this house to hide my 
papers! Good Lord, I should think I’ve told you often 
enough that I won’t have anything in this room dis¬ 
turbed ! It’s really disgraceful! ’ ’ 

Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort. This was rank 
injustice; she wanted to defend herself. Then she remem¬ 
bered Mrs. Gabriel, and managed to smile. 

“What have you lost, Stephen? I don’t think I’ve 
touched anything of yours. Can I help to find it?” 

“My notes,” he growled, more quietly. “I really do 
think you might tell the servants to leave my room alone.” 


300 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“I will,” she promised. ‘ ‘Have you looked in that chest 
in the corner?” 

‘‘My dear girl, is it likely I should put them in there?” 
Stephen demanded. 

“You might have done it in an absent-minded moment,” 
she said. Now that the first flash of anger had subsided 
she was beginning to find this game interesting too. It 
was rather fun taming the fury of an unreasonable man- 
creature; it made you feel so old and Machiavellian. 

Stephen ransacked another drawer. 

“Chest indeed! The last place in the world where I 
should put them! Really, this is enough to put one off for 
a week.” 

Elizabeth went to the chest and tried the lid. 

“It's locked!” Stephen snapped. 

“Do open it!” she coaxed. “I shan’t feel satisfied until 
I’ve looked inside.” 

‘ ‘ If anyone looks it ’ll be me, ’ ’ Stephen said disagreeably. 
“I don’t want all my papers in a havoc.” 

In the face of the muddle he himself had made in his 
efforts to find the missing notes, this was more unreasonable 
than ever. Elizabeth choked down another retort. 

“All right. You come and look. Do, Stephen!” 

He came unwillingly, and unlocked the chest. 

“It’s perfectly ridiculous,” he said. “I shouldn’t be 
such a fool as to forget that I put them here. You seem 
to have a very poor opinion of my— Oh!” He lifted the 
notes out of the chest and scowled mightily. 

Wonderfully innocent, Elizabeth said, 

“Perhaps one of the maids did it. I’ll speak to them 
about it.” 

Stephen looked around at her sharply; she maintained 
an air of guileless gravity. Stephen’s lips quivered; a 
twinkle came into his eyes; he began to laugh. Elizabeth 
laughed too, and at last Stephen said, 


INSTEAD OF THE THOBN 


301 


“Oh, ’Lisbeth, I am a bad-tempered swine! I’m aw¬ 
fully sorry.” 

Elizabeth thought, How right Mrs. Gabriel was! What 
a fool I used to be! 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


A month slipped by; Stephen said that it was time they 
thought about Christmas. What would Elizabeth like to 
do ? Elizabeth did not know; she would do what Stephen 
wanted. They stayed at this deadlock until a rambling 
letter came from Mrs. Ramsay, inviting them to spend 
Christmas with her, if they had nothing better to do. 

“Oh, let’s do that!” Elizabeth said. “I want to see 
Mater again.” 

She feared Cynthia’s presence at the flat, but Cynthia 
had gone with Anthony to his parents, in Norfolk. She 
was relieved out of all proportion. 

“Darling,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “I’ve asked ever so many 
people to dinner, but I can’t remember who, or how many. 
Isn’t it trying? Stephen, whom do you suppose I asked?” 

“Colonel Lambert and Bertha Tarrant,” Stephen said 
promptly. 

“So I did,” Mrs. Ramsay agreed. “Oh, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Fletcher. Elizabeth, Thomas nearly seized the turkey 
this morning. Wasn’t it awful? You’re in disgrace, 
aren’t you, my angel?” 

Thomas grinned widely and flattened his ears. 

The party was a merry one, and Mrs. Ramsay more than 
usually amusing. The Tyrells were present, wilder than 
ever, and to Elizabeth just as incomprehensible. She 
thought them mad, and sometimes improper, but Stephen’s 
eyes twinkled at her across the table, and she was able to 
tolerate the Tyrells. Stephen understood her feelings; 
that was a bond between them which made things easier to 
bear. 

After Christmas they returned to the Halt, and this time 
302 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


303 


it was Elizabeth who chafed to he in the country again. As 
soon as Stephen completed a chapter of his hook she typed 
it, and gradually her interest in the work grew till it was 
almost as if the book were her own. 

Quite unconsciously she was helping him. She went to 
him once with a sheet of his manuscript, and pointed out 
a word. 

“Stephen, is that * crude’ or ‘coarse’?” 

He looked at it, then at her. 

“ ‘Crude/ ” he said slowly, thinking. 

“Oh!” Elizabeth frowned a little, and turned away. 
Stephen’s voice followed her. 

“It ought to be ‘coarse.’ Of course it ought. Thanks 
for pointing it out, ’Lisbeth.” 

“ ‘Crude’ doesn’t seem to be quite the word you want,” 
she said apologetically. 

“Not a bit. Change it, will you?” 

The characters in the book became alive to her. She 
remembered the impatience she had felt when Stephen and 
Nina had talked of Norman as though he were a personal 
friend. She had learned to talk in just the same way about 
Colin Cardew, the impossible detective whose adventures 
she had typed out on paper. Miss Arden had thought it 
silly; Elizabeth saw now that it wasn’t silly at all, but 
quite natural. 

It was she who first spoke of Stephen’s book in this fash¬ 
ion ; he was careful never to speak of it, for fear of boring 
her. 

“When’s Frances coming back from Egypt?” she asked, 
one day at lunch. 

Surprise and gratification leaped into Stephen’s eyes. 

“Oh, do you miss her?” 

“Yes, quite. I’m fond of Frances.” 

“I’ll bring her back at once,” Stephen said. “What 
do you think of Dalison?” 


304 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Her eyes fell; she toyed with her glass. 

“Oh—I don’t care about him much.” 

“Untrue to life?” 

“No.” Of impulse she added, “Too true. I—I rec¬ 
ognise Charles.” 

“If that’s so, ’Lisbeth, it happened without my knowing 
it. He isn’t meant to be Charles.” 

“I’m glad he isn’t,” Elizabeth said simply. 

Lady Ribblemere came to see her one afternoon, and made 
a determined effort to break into the library. Elizabeth 
managed to keep her out for some time, but before she took 
her departure Lady Ribblemere insisted on seeing Stephen. 

“He—he hates to be disturbed when he’s at work,” 
Elizabeth said, thinking how rude it sounded. “I—simply 
daren’t—let you in!” 

Lady Ribblemere tapped her playfully upon the arm 
with her lorgnettes. 

“What a stern guardian! I’ve known dear Stephen 
since he was a baby, my dear. I always think that makes 
such a difference. I shall certainly not disturb him, but 
I do not think he will mind seeing such an old friend for a 
few minutes.” 

With a quaking heart Elizabeth followed her to the 
library. 

The first thing Stephen saw was Lady Ribblemere’s mas¬ 
sive person. Then, over her ladyship’s shoulder he caught 
sight of Elizabeth’s face, which said plainly, I’m very sorry, 
and I know you hate it, but I couldn’t help it. 

If Elizabeth had looked as though she thought he ought 
to like Lady Ribblemere’s invasion he would have been 
furious, just as he had been on the occasion of Lady Rib¬ 
blemere’s first call. But Elizabeth looked horrified, and 
rather frightened. That amused him, and he smiled. 

When Lady Ribblemere had gone (she stayed for half- 
an-hour), Elizabeth said, in a hurry, 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


305 


“I tried and tried, Stephen, but she would come. 
I’m awfully sorry!” 

“I know, darling. She’s damnably determined. Thank 
God she doesn’t inflict herself upon us often! ’ ’ 

Elizabeth heaved a sigh of relief; Stephen heard it. 

“Were you afraid of an outburst from me, ’Lisbeth?” 

“Oh, no!” she said quickly. “Of course not!” 

A shadow crossed his face. With studied lightness, he 
said, 

“That’s an ’orrible story, ’Lisbeth. You were.” 

His smile made it less hard for her to be frank. 

“Yes, I suppose I was.” 

The shadow disappeared; Stephen went to her. She 
thought he was going to kiss her, and instinctively she 
drew back. In an instant she had recovered herself, but 
it was too late. Stephen returned to his desk. Elizabeth 
had a fleeting glimpse of his face; the sternness about his 
mouth, his tight-shut lips and sad eyes made her ashamed 
and miserable. She rose, and out of pity went to him. 
He looked up, and blushing, she kissed him lightly, on his 
forehead. 

A hand took her wrist firmly; Stephen looked into her 
eyes. 

‘ 1 Elizabeth—was that—love—or—just—duty ? ’ ’ 

She could not answer him in words. After a moment 
he released her. 

“I see. Don’t—do it again, dear. There’s a limit to 
what I can stand. I’d rather have—nothing—than—your 
loveless kisses.” 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

He tried to sound cheerful. 

“We won’t try to force it, ’Lisbeth, will we?” 

Mr. Hengist came to stay with them. Elizabeth drove to 
the station to meet him in her pony-trap, a gift from 
Stephen. 


306 


INSTEAD OF JHE THORN 


‘‘Hullo !” he grunted. “You look Father different from 
when last I saw you, young lady.” 

“Was I an awful wreck?” she smiled. 

“A miserable, skinny little fool,” he said honestly. 

Elizabeth laughed. 

“If you’re going to be rude I shan’t drive you home in 
my beautiful trap, ’ ’ she threatened. 1 x Stephen gave it me. 
Isn’t it lovely? The pony’s name is Timothy, warranted 
not to shy or bolt.” 

“I’m glad of that,” Mr. Hengist said, climbing into the 
trap. “I’m not so young as I was.” 

“Oh, but he does!” Elizabeth said. “He’s perfectly 
dreadful, but I don’t think he means to be naughty. Any¬ 
way, he’s a darling. Wasn’t it nice of Stephen to give 
him to me?” 

“Very. You’re more lucky than you know.” 

She looked at him gravely. 

“No, Mr. Hengist.” 

“No? Glad to hear it then.” 

“I haven’t lived in a Baker Street lodging-house for 
nearly a year without learning to appreciate—things like 
this.” 

“Excellent,” said Mr. Hengist. He then remarked, “I 
like your husband.” 

“Yes, so do I,” Elizabeth said calmly. 

Stephen was awaiting them in the garden, with the tea. 
He shook hands with Mr. Hengist very warmly. 

“I didn’t come to meet you because I knew Elizabeth 
wanted to show off in the pony-trap,” he explained. “Be¬ 
sides which I was horribly busy.” 

Elizabeth could not choke the feeling that it was rude 
of Stephen to have said that. Mr. Hengist evidently 
didn’t think so, but he, like Stephen, had a different stand¬ 
ard of politeness. 

He and Stephen played golf next morning, but in the 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


307 


afternoon when Stephen was at work, he came and sat 
beside Elizabeth under the elm-tree, and smoked. 

For some time Elizabeth watched him in silence; then 
at last she said. 

‘ 1 Do begin, Mr. Hengist! I know you ’re going to talk. ’ ’ 

He turned his head and surveyed her in some surprise. 

“That,” he said, “sounds most unlike you.” 

“Yes, that’s why I said it,” Elizabeth answered naively. 

“Well, it’ll do for my text,” he remarked, and settled 
himself deeper in his chair. 

Elizabeth put down her needlework. 

“So far so good,” Mr. Hengist said. “During the past 
year, my child, though you may not know it, you’ve been 
shedding the skin of hypocrisy. No, longer than that. 
Correctly speaking, the shedding process began with your 
marriage.” 

Elizabeth looked at him wide-eyed. 

“When you were quite a small kid,” Mr. Hengist went 
on, “you were Elizabeth pure and simple. After that 
you became Elizabeth-Anne. Do you see what I mean?” 

“Yes, but I don’t know that I—” 

“Probably not. What I want to know before I go any 
further is, Are you going to snub me if I say things 
detrimental to your aunt’s character?” 

“Oh, I never snub—” 

“That is Elizabeth-Anne,” said Mr. Hengist, to a cloud 
above him. 

She had to laugh. 

“No, I’m not going to snub you.” 

“Thanks, Elizabeth. Your aunt is a reactionary. She 
belongs to a dead age, only she refused to see that it was 
dead, but instead tried to carry it on in the shape of your¬ 
self. No doubt she was actuated by the best of motives. 
Unfortunately she has a narrow mind, and you a pliant 
disposition. If, as a child, you had stuck to your own 


308 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


character your aunt would to-day be a very different 
woman. A strong-willed niece would have made her move 
along with the times. As it was, hers was the master¬ 
mind, and your character had to mould itself to hers. 
With women one must be top-dog and the other under¬ 
dog. I discovered that quite early in life. Rather inter¬ 
esting. Are you listening to me?” 

“Yes. I never heard anything like it before.” 

“All the more reason to listen carefully and afterwards 
digest it. I’d got to the point where your character, 
through weakness—we’ll call it pliancy—got moulded into 
your aunt’s character. I watched it happening with a 
good deal of regret, and some interest. What you’ve al¬ 
ways lacked is moral courage. Sooner than brave the 
storm your own ideas would raise, you covered-them up 
and pretended to think as your aunt thought. Whatever 
she wanted you to think, you thought; whatever she 
wanted you to like, you liked. That is to say, you pre¬ 
tended to. Your aunt managed to convince you that it 
was wrong to have your own opinions, so you started on 
a double pretence. You pretended to your aunt, and you 
pretended to yourself. That’s when you became Elizabeth- 
Anne. People like your father enthused about your sweet 
disposition, and tractableness. People like me, who are 
always rude, thought you insufferable. Well, the pretence 
became a habit, so much so that Elizabeth got thoroughly 
smothered until not even yourself knew that she was there. 
But she was. Asleep, I daresay.” He paused, but Eliz¬ 
abeth made no remark. “Then you met Stephen. I’m 
going to hit hard now, Elizabeth, I’m afraid. You pre¬ 
tend to be in love with Stephen because he was a celebrity, 
and because you thought how jolly it would be to get 
married and be independent. That was Elizabeth stirring 
underneath Elizabeth-Anne. You didn’t love him. You 
got caught by glamour—and ignorance. You married 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


309 


him, and your father and aunt were sentimental about it 
and thoroughly pleased. Next you discovered that mar¬ 
riage wasn’t quite such an idyll as you imagined it was 
going to be. You were badly handicapped by the fact 
that you didn’t love your husband. Elizabeth-Anne, being 
still on top, you tried hard to think you did love him, in¬ 
stead of facing the truth quietly and seeing what could 
be done about it. All this time, Elizabeth was slowly wak¬ 
ing up. When you left Stephen you’d left off pretending 
for a time. I’m not going into the question of whether 
it was right or wrong to leave him. I only know that it 
was sincere. Well, you agreed to part, and then you be¬ 
gan your life alone. I watched you. It was interesting. 
At first I thought you’d go home to your people. You 
didn’t, and I realised that Elizabeth was more awake than 
I’d guessed. You began to get fed up with your aunt. 
That was rather a severe blow to Elizabeth-Anne. How¬ 
ever, it didn’t kill her. You made a fool of yourself over 
Wendell. You see the hand of Elizabeth-Anne? You 
evidently had a row with Wendell, and Elizabeth climbed 
uppermost again. It was Elizabeth-Anne who married 
Stephen, my child, but it was Elizabeth who parted from 
him, and who returned to him. And now it’s a fight 
between the two. You’re trying to be Elizabeth, but you 
can’t help feeling that you ought to be Elizabeth-Anne. 
See?” 

Elizabeth drew a long breath. 

“I’m—beginning to. You—don’t know how hard it 
is.” 

“No, I don’t suppose I do. When you learn to love 
your husband it won’t be hard.” 

“Shall I—ever?” she asked, a pathetic catch in her 
voice. 

Mr. Hengist took his pipe out of his mouth. 

“Why not?” he said. 


310 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“I don’t know,” Elizabeth answered helplessly. 

4 ‘If I were you,” said Mr. Hengist severely, “I should 
set about it as quickly as possible. Nothing will be natural 
to you in your life together until you do. Then it’ll all 
be natural.” 

“I wish I could,” she sighed. 

“That’s a step in the right direction anyway,” grunted 
Mr. Hengist. 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


It was surprising how amicably they were living to¬ 
gether. At times it was a strain; occasionally Elizabeth- 
Anne gained the ascendancy over Elizabeth. On 
Stephen’s side great forbearance was necessary, and 
greater patience. How big a strain that was, only he 
knew. There were days when the sight of Elizabeth almost 
hurt him; then he would go out for a tramp over the fields, 
alone, fighting himself. 

His book failed to please him. He wrote and rewrote, 
fell into exasperation and tore up a month’s work. Eliza¬ 
beth saw him do it and was horrified. He threw the rent 
sheets into the fire. It was on the tip of her tongue to ex¬ 
claim that it would make the hearth dirty and untidy. 
She remembered Mr. Hengist’s words, and said severely to 
herself, Be quiet, Elizabeth-Anne. The hearth didn’t 
matter; what did matter was Stephen’s anger at his own 
failure. Sympathy for him drove out annoyance. She 
was not sure what she could say: whether he would rather 
she paid no heed. 

“So much for that!” Stephen snapped. 

This, thought Elizabeth, is where I have to pick him up 
and start him off again. 

“How much have you destroyed?” she asked. 

“Six chapters. The rest can follow them for all I 
care.” 

She wrinkled her brow. 

“Oh . . . from where Frances comes back to South¬ 
ampton. Don’t tear up any more, Stephen.” 

“It’s all rotten,” he said moodily. 

“No, it isn’t. I don’t know anything about the style, 
311 


312 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


but it’s an interesting story. What are you going to do 
with Frances now ? ’ ’ 

11 Drown her.” 

She laughed. 

“No, don’t! I love Frances.” 

“Well, she’s hopeless as soon as she comes back to 
England. ’ ’ 

“Leave her in Egypt then,” she suggested practically. 

He sat down. He liked to discuss his book, especially 
with Elizabeth who knew it almost by heart. 

“How can I leave her in Egypt? She’s going to marry 
Derrick.” 

“Can’t he go out there? If I were in love with a girl 
I wouldn’t stay in England when she was abroad.” 

“Yes, but don’t forget that he’s too damned proud to 
ask her to marry him.” 

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. 

“Stephen, I don’t believe he would be.” 

“You— Don’t you?” He was interested, and leaned 
forward in his chair. 

“If he was so awfully in love with her—and knew 
that she loved him, it wouldn’t matter about her money. 
Make him get some work to do and go out to her.” 

“Instead of my original idea of making her do the 
wooing ? ’ ’ 

“Yes. Why not? I’ve read books where the rich girl 
makes the penniless man marry her, but I’ve never read 
one where it was the other way round.” 

Stephen sat still for a while, pondering it. Then he 
got up. 

“I say, ’Lisbeth, that’s rather a fine notion! I believe 
I can make something out of it. Thanks awfully for help¬ 
ing! I think I’ll just sketch out a scheme now.” He 
went back to his desk, and presently his pen began to 
move, faster and faster. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


313 


Elizabeth curled herself up on the sofa and smiled 
secretly. She watched Stephen’s profile with tenderness 
in her eyes. She thought, I may not know much about 
writing a book, but I’m beginning to know a lot about 
this Man-thing of mine. It gave her a delightful sense of 
power. It was wonderful that anyone so big and strong 
could be so helpless and easily influenced. 

Her glance travelled to Stephen’s straight shoulders. 
She was glad they were not rounded from much writing; 
she would hate him to stoop. 

She relaxed into the downy cushions behind her, and 
started to read. She had long since given up the habit 
of being unnaturally quiet while Stephen wrote. She 
had become so used to the scratch of his pen that she paid 
very little heed to it. He did not seem to mind if she 
coughed, or made up the fire, so she did both, whenever 
she felt inclined. 

Presently one of the maids came in with the tea. Eliza¬ 
beth made it herself, and she chinked the cups suggestively. 
She had discovered that if she called Stephen away from 
his work he hated it, just as he hated her to bring tea to 
his desk. But if she said nothing, but started to pour 
out he was sure to leave his writing and come to the 
fireside. 

He did it to-day. The cloud had gone from his brow, 
and his eyes were smiling and bright. He sat down on a 
low stool and began to eat buttered toast from the dish in 
the hearth. He always ate it like that, promiscuously, 
and he always put his cup and saucer down on the floor 
beside him. Elizabeth, from thinking it unseemly, had 
grown to like the habit. She would never sit on 
the floor herself, and she would never eat lumps of 
sugar as Stephen did, out of the bowl, but she found it 
comfortable when he did so. It seemed cosy and 
intimate. 


314 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Darling, it was a wonderful idea of yours! I’m 
getting on splendidly now.” 

“Do hurry up and let me have some to read,” she said, 
elated at her success. 

He looked eagerly up at her. 

“Do you really want it, ’Lisbeth?” 

“I shouldn’t say so if I didn’t.” 

“Yes, you would,” he retorted audaciously, but smiled 
as he said it. 

It was an understanding smile; instead of being hurt 
she returned it. 

“That’s a mean attack,” she said. “Haven’t I been 
frank with you?” 

“You have, darling, and I apologise. Last night you 
said if I was going to cross out things and write squiggles 
on top you wouldn’t read another word.” 

“Yes, and I meant it, too. Don’t let the butter ooze 
on to the carpet, for goodness ’ sake! ’ ’ 

“Sorry. Did it?” 

“No, but I was afraid it might.” 

“Oh, I see. Prevention’s better than cure. Did I tell 
you I had a letter from Cynthia this morning?” 

“No. Anything interesting?” 

“She’s had laryngitis and Anthony wants to take her 
away. ’ ’ 

“Poor thing! Where are they going?” 

“Nowhere, because their nurse is away on a holiday 
and there’s no one to look after Christopher. Rotten 
luck, isn’t it ? ” 

Slowly Elizabeth put her cup down. She glanced 
down at Stephen. 

“Do you think—I mean, would Cynthia mind—if we 
offered to take Christopher?” 

“We—? I say, that’s an idea! You’re full of them to¬ 
day, ’Lisbeth. Wouldn’t it be a bore for you, though?” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


315 


“I’d love to take care of Christopher. Only—Cynthia 
might not like it. I—I hardly like to offer . . .” 

Bewilderment was in Stephen’s face. 

4 ‘Why not? Why should Cynthia mind?” 

She flushed. 

‘‘She—doesn’t like me. Oh, Stephen, you know! Be¬ 
cause of our separation—and—and Charles—and all that.” 

“And what has any of that got to do with Cynthia?” 
Stephen asked dangerously. 

“I knew by her face—when she saw—Charles with me— 
what she thought.” 

“If she thought anything filthy she can go tq hell and 
take her thoughts with her,” Stephen said calmly. 

“Well, really, Stephen!” Elizabeth expostulated. 

“Whatever she thought she doesn’t think now. That’s 
a bit involved. Anyway, she knows Wendell wasn’t your 
lover. You wouldn’t be here if he had been.” 

She looked at him curiously. 

“Wouldn’t you—have taken me back?” 

He stared into the fire; his profile was hard all at once, 
and stern. 

“I don’t know. I— Don’t let’s talk of such a thing, 
’Lisbeth. It makes me feel ill.” 

Woman-like she pressed the point. 

“No, but would you, Stephen?” 

“What, be ill? Probably.” 

“Don’t be so tiresome! Would you have taken me 
back?” 

He knelt suddenly, and took her hands in his. 

“It would have been an awful pill for me to swallow, 
’Lisbeth, but—yes, I’d have taken you. I—couldn’t have 
helped myself. When I came to you—that day—I was 
prepared—even for that.” 

‘ ‘ Oh—Stephen! ’ ’ 

He kissed her hands quickly. 


316 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“I didn’t believe it, darling, I swear that! It was 
just—a possibility. Don’t let’s speak of it. What about 
Christopher ? ’ ’ 

Her hands lay in his. An awed look was in her eyes. 

“You—must love me—very much—to have been able 
to—come to me—thinking that.” 

“I didn’t think it.” 

“You were afraid, though. I see now. I—I wish I 
were more—worthy of your love, Stephen.” 

He bent his head. 

“You’re worthy of much more. Don’t let it—worry 
you, darling. You’ve given me more than I hoped for.” 

“I think it’s time I did let things worry me,” she said 
slowly. “I give you—nothing. It’s you who give—all 
the time.” 

“You give all that you can. Don’t be unhappy, my 
dearest.” 

“I ought to be unhappy. I hate myself. I hate Eliza¬ 
beth-Anne. ’ ’ 

He looked up. 

“How much?” 

She had not meant to mention Elizabeth-Anne; it had 
slipped out before she noticed it. She had to explain. 

Stephen laughed. 

“Just like Mr. Hengist! Now I shall know what to say 
to you when you reprimand me for being late for 
breakfast. ’ ’ 

“What will you say?” she smiled. 

“I shall say, Shut up, Elizabeth-Anne.” 

“That ought to cure me,” she nodded. “About Chris¬ 
topher ...” 

“Ring Cynthia up and put the plan before her.” 

“Oh, I can’t! I— You do it!” 

“Not going to. It’s your job. Don’t be silly, ’Lisbeth. 
Cyn’ll jump at it.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


317 


“Pm not so sure.” 

44 Well, I am.” He jumped up and went to the tele¬ 
phone. Elizabeth heard him ask for Cynthia’s number. 

Presently the bell rang; Stephen unhooked the receiver. 
Evidently Cynthia herself had answered the call. 

“ Hullo, that you, Cyn? . . . Sorry about your illness. 
Sorry for you, I mean. Must be a relief for poor old 
Anthony to have your voice reduced to a whisper . . . 
What? ... I said it must be a rel— Oh, indeed? Nice 
way ter talk to your elders and betters . . . What? . . . 
What? ... I didn’t say I was a plural. Elder and better, 
then. Glad you recognise the fact. Look here, Elizabeth 
wants to speak to you! . . . Yes, Elizabeth. . . . Hold on, 
will you?” He turned. “Come on, old girl.” 

Reluctantly she took the receiver from him. 

“Oh—how do you do, Cynthia?” she said, rather shak¬ 
ily- 

Cynthia’s cracked voice reached her. 

“Hullo, how are you?” 

“I’m all right, thanks. I’m so sorry you’ve been ill. 
I—i wondered whether—you’d let—let me take care of— 
of Christopher for you—while you and Anthony go away. 
I—I would so love to—if—if you’d trust him—to me.” 

There was a short pause. 

“That’s extraordinarily nice of you, Elizabeth,” Cyn¬ 
thia said. “Do you mean it?” 

“Yes, oh yes! But I thought perhaps you’d— rather 
not?” 

“Well, of course you haven’t had much experience with 
small boys,” Cynthia replied deliberately. “Still, I don’t 
see that I need worry.” 

“I—didn’t mean that—exactly.” 

“Didn’t you? Look here—you can’t, but no matter— 
If I send him are you sure he won’t tire you out? He’s 
fairly rampageous, you know.” 


318 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Of course he won’t. And Nana will know what to 
do if anything happens, won’t she? When shall I come 
to fetch him ? ’ ’ 

“Anthony wants to bear me off on Friday. Would 
Thursday suit you?” 

“Yes, any day. It’s—nice of you to let me have him, 
Cynthia.” 

“I don’t quite see it. The niceness seems to be on your 
side. I’ll thank you properly when you come to fetch 
Christopher.” 

“Please, don’t!” Elizabeth said. “Would you like to 
speak to Stephen again?” 

“Not a bit, thanks. Till Thursday, then.” 

“Yes. Goodbye.” 

“Short and sweet,” Stephen remarked. “I gather we 
are to fetch the Cherubic One on Thursday?” 

“How clever of you!” she said, dimpling. “Stephen, 
won’t it be fun?” 

“We shall see,” he said. “Rather strenuous fun if I 
know anything about Christopher.” 

‘ 1 1 don’t mind that, ’ ’ she answered. 

Christopher celebrated the first evening of his visit by 
howling lustily for “Marmar.” Nana exhorted him in 
vain; Elizabeth’s blendishments increased his tears. 
Stephen appeared upon the scene, and there fell a slight 
lull. Christopher sat up. 

“Look here, my worthy nephew, how do you suppose I 
am to work when you kick up this unholy din? What’s 
the matter?” 

“Don’t ask him that, for heaven’s sake!” Elizabeth said 
hastily. 

“Want Marmar!” sobbed Christopher. 

“Oh, Lord!” Stephen said ruefully. 

“Pick him up!” demanded Christopher, who generally 
referred to himself in the third person. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


319 


Stephen obeyed. 

“Anything else I can do for you, my lord?” 

“Take him downstairs,” Christopher advised him. 

“What do you think?” Stephen asked. 

“I tlunk he ought to stay in bed,” Elizabeth answered, 
“but perhaps it would be more peaceful if he came down 
to the library for a bit.” 

So Christopher was carried downstairs, and regaled with 
three chocolates and the story of the Three Bears. He then 
fell asleep, and was cautiously conveyed up to bed. Hav¬ 
ing proved himself to have very much the master-mind 
he proceeded, during the rest of his visit, to rule his hosts 
with a rod of iron. The only person who could with¬ 
stand him was Nana. W r ith considerable sagacity Christo¬ 
pher attached himself to his uncle and aunt, and spent his 
time in riotous living. His chief joy was to accompany 
Elizabeth in the pony-trap when she went shopping, and 
to hold the reins. On one of these expeditions he was in¬ 
troduced to Lady Ribblemere, and when she* bent to 
embrace him, backed quickly, and requested her to go 
away. 

“I—I think it’s because you have a large hat on,” Eliza¬ 
beth said, in excuse for his behaviour. “He—he doesn’t 
like them.” 

“He does,” Christopher said firmly. 

“Aren’t you going to give me a nice kiss, dear?” Lady 
Ribblemere coaxed him. 

Christopher shook his head violently. 

“Kiss Hector,” he said, and nearly fell out of the trap 
in his efforts to clasp the wolf-hound round the neck. 

“Dear me, he is a very sturdy little fellow,” Lady Rib¬ 
blemere said. “What are you going to be when you’re 
grown up, Christopher?” 

Christopher considered the point at length. 

“Engine-driver,” he said presently. “Ta-ta!” He 


320 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


waved his hand inexorably, and requested Timothy to 
Gee-up. 

When his summary dismissal of Lady Ribblemere was 
reported, between giggles, to his uncle, Stephen tossed him 
up in his arms and told him that he showed great dis¬ 
crimination. Christopher grasped his coat collar and 
struggled for words. 

“He had—a wide on the pony!” he informed Stephen. 
* 1 Auntie held him on .’ 1 

Stephen reflected that Auntie had never been so gay as 
now, when she was in such demand. It was a surprise to 
him when she romped with Christopher; all self- 
consciousness left her; again and again rippling laughter 
came, so that he laid down his pen to watch her, and to 
listen. Or he would be drawn into the game, much to 
Christopher ’s delight, and would impersonate an engine, 
or a pony, mostly of the runaway order, for his nephew’s 
amusement. 

Nana unearthed aged picture-books from one of the box- 
rooms, and these Christopher perused, with the aid of his 
hosts. He sat upon the floor with his aunt on one side 
and his uncle on the other, and the book open on his lap. 
One fat finger pressed hard upon a luridly coloured cow. 

“Moo-cow.” 

His hearers applauded nobly. A catechism followed. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Jeremiah,” Stephen said. 

“Oh! What’s he doing?” 

“Chewing the cud.” 

“Don’t be so feeble,” laughed Elizabeth. 

“Well, you tell him.” 

“Not at all. I’m not a novelist.” 

“He’s eating /” Christopher said. 

“That’s what I said,” Stephen pointed out. 


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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 


In March Elizabeth came hurrying into the library one 
morning in a state of great agitation. 

“Stephen, what am I to do? They’re trying to rope 
me into the Mothers’ Union or something. Meetings and 
blankets and horrible coal tickets!” 

* 1 Who’s trying to rope you in?” 

“Lady Ribblemere, and Mrs. Edmondston, and Mrs. 
Fraser. I don’t want to, Stephen! ’ ’ 

“Well, don’t,” he said coolly. 

“Yes, but everybody seems to belong to the Union, or 
whatever it is. ’ ’ 

“All the more reason for keeping out of it.” 

“But I don’t know how to keep out of it without being 
rude! They all urge me to join and help my fellow- 
creatures. I don’t want to.” 

“My darling, there’s no earthly reason why you should. 
You’re much too young. Say I won’t hear of it.” 

“They wouldn’t believe me. And it seems too rude and 
disobliging to refuse.” 

Stephen pointed an accusing finger. 

“Elizabeth-Anne, depart!” 

“I don’t see that I’m being Elizabeth-Anne-ish at all. 
Lady Ribblemere’s an awful bore, but she’s been very nice 
to me, and I don’t want to seem churlish. Besides, what’ll 
they think of me?” 

“Most of ’em will wish they’d been courageous enough 
to stand out too.” 

“Do you suppose they will?” Elizabeth said dubiously. 
She looked out into the garden, and the sight of the daffo- 

323 


324 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


dils nodding beneath the window seemed to make her more 
indignant. “The idea of wanting me to go to meetings in 
a stuffy hall when the flowers are all coming up, and my 
speckled hen’s eggs nearly due to hatch out!” 

“Disgraceful!” Stephen agreed, controlling his quiver¬ 
ing lip. 

“I shan’t join.” 

“No, don’t.” 

Elizabeth’s pet lamb appeared on the lawn. 

“The angel! I don’t care what they think! They 
haven’t got a lamb to look after. Oh, it’s eating the hya¬ 
cinth buds! ’ ’ She ran out to coax the lamb away from the 
flower-beds. To Lady Ribblemere, who called to ask her 
for the last time to join the committee, she extended a 
polite but firm refusal. She surprised Lady Ribblemere, 
but she surprised herself more. 

She thought how delighted Mr. Hengist would be if he 
could hear. Elizabeth-Anne was dying, slowly but surely. 

She had made new friends in the neighbourhood, young 
wives like herself, and Mr. Trelawney. To him she went 
for advice about her garden. He gave it willingly, and 
tried hard to make her familiar with botanical terms. 
Mindful of her first error with him she smiled prettily, 
and said, 

“It’s no good, Mr. Trelawney. When you say, I should 
put some Bachelor’s Buttons on the south bed, I know 
where I am, but when you say Ranunculus something-or- 
other, I’m absolutely at sea.” 

“It is astonishing how ignorant people are of the most 
ordinary terms, ’ ’ he said severely. 

But he was a great help in the garden, because he knew 
when you had to plant out your boxes of seeds, and where 
would be the best place to grow sweet-peas, and that if 
you moved the peonies they wouldn’t flower till a year 
afterwards. 


INSTEAD OP THE THORN 


325 


What with the garden and the lamb and the broods of 
fluffy chickens, Elizabeth’s time was fully and happily oc¬ 
cupied. So that when Stephen went to London on busi¬ 
ness she elected to remain at the Halt. 

He was away for a week, and she missed him unutter¬ 
ably. She missed the smell of tobacco in the house, the 
litter of papers in the library, the litter of ties and shirts 
in his room. Meals without him were depressing and 
lonely; the evenings seemed interminable. She realised 
with a start that she wanted Stephen. Much as she loved 
the Halt, it was a prison without him. A dozen times in 
the day she wanted Stephen’s help, or wanted to tell him 
something that had happened when she was in the village. 

She began to count the days to his return, quite un¬ 
consciously. Then, on the last morning, a telegram came 
to say that he could not get back until three days later. 

A wave of bitter disappointment swept over her. Until 
the telegram came she had not known how much she was 
looking forward to Stephen’s return. She felt ill-used 
and miserable; none of her preparations were of any use 
now; there would be no cosy talk over the fire that evening. 

Then suddenly she thought, Why am I so disappointed? 
Why do I feel as though I’d like to go to bed and 
cry? 

In all her life she had known nothing to equal this 
strange sensation; she brooded over it, wide-eyed, twist¬ 
ing her fingers. She thought about Stephen, all the man¬ 
nerisms that were his, everything he did or said. She 
looked at his empty chair by the desk, and a little, wonder¬ 
ing smile came. 

During the days that followed the smile was often on 
her lips. She had the look of one who hugs some delecta¬ 
ble secret. 

The day of Stephen’s homecoming dawned at last. Eliza¬ 
beth spent a long time over the arrangement of the dinner- 


326 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


menu. She put fresh flowers in all the rooms, and just be¬ 
fore tea changed her frock. 

The car purred to the front-door; Elizabeth heard it, 
and became very busy with the tea-cosy. Stephen’s voice 
was raised in the hall. 

“ ’Lisbeth!” 

She went to him, flushed and shy, adorable, and stood 
temptingly before him. His arms went out, and fell again 
to his sides. 

‘ 4 Darling—it’s damned good to see you again,” he said 
huskily. 

She smiled up at him, and waited. Stephen looked at 
her, then squared his shoulders. 

“Am I—in time for tea?” he jerked out. 

“It's just ready,” Elizabeth said. 

They went to the library, and he sat down at Elizabeth’s 
feet, just as usual. For some time he did not say any¬ 
thing. Elizabeth touched his shoulder. 

“New tie,” she remarked. 

“Yes. Rather nice, isn’t it? I brought you some choco¬ 
lates, ’Lisbeth, and—and this, if you’ll have it.” Anx¬ 
iously he watched her open the little velvet case. 

“Oh, Stephen, what a beautiful bracelet! Thank you 
very, very much!” She held out her hand. “Put it on, 
please. I’d like you to.” 

He did so; she saw that his fingers trembled slightly. 

“Glad you like it, ’Lisbeth.” His lips brushed htr 
wrist. 11 Any news ? ’ ’ 

‘* Heaps. Tell me yours first. ’ ’ 

“It would bore you. Purely business.” 

“It wouldn’t bore me,” Elizabeth said. “Please tell!” 

“Well, the biggest and best piece of news is that I’ve 
signed a contract with an American firm of publishers. 
For the new book.” 

“Stephen, how wonderful! Who are they?” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


327 


“Crosby, Thompson Company.’’ He went into details. 
“And, ’Lisbeth, I’m going to have a shot at dramatising 
* Caraway Seeds.’ Think it could be done?” 

She was almost as excited as he was; her eyes shone; she 
clapped her hands. 

“What fun! Of course it could be done! As soon as 
you’ve absolutely finished the new book, let’s go and see 
lots of plays and take notes about stage-craft. Isn’t Mater 
pleased ? ’ ’ 

“Thrilled to the core. She sent her love, by the way, 
and said that she was coming to pay us a visit soon. Now 
let me have your news.” 

“It won’t sound much after yours. But prepare your¬ 
self for a tragedy. Two of the ducklings are dead.” 

“Not Samuel?” he said. 

“No, thank goodness. Samuel is as perky as ever. I 
don’t know what went wrong with the others, and all Nana 
said was, Ah, well! ’ ’ 

* 1 How unfeeling! ’ ’ 

“Wasn’t it? The other piece of news is that Maisie 
Fletcher has a baby-boy. Mr. Fletcher’s as proud as a 
peacock about it.” 

“Oh!” Stephen said. Then, rather drearily, he said, 
“Lucky chap.” 

Elizabeth’s eyes were veiled by her lashes. 

“Flo’s going rather lame. She picked up a thorn, and 
it was rather deeply embedded. I managed to get it out, 
though, didn’t I, Flo my darling?” 

Stephen stroked the dog’s silky head absent-mindedly 
There fell a silence. The maid came to clear the tea away, 
and Elizabeth picked up her work-bag. 

The days slipped by; it seemed to Stephen that Eliza¬ 
beth had subtly changed. Again and again he was struck 
by an intangible something in her attitude, and would stare 
at her, puzzled. It was almost as though she were co- 


328 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


quetting with him, only that was hardly possible. She 
had never done it; he did not think it was in her nature. 
But whether she was coquetting or not, the change in her 
made it doubly hard for him to preserve his friendly calm 
towards her. One moment she was aloof, the next tantalis- 
ingly near. Nothing could have been sweeter than her 
treatment of him when, for two days, he was suffering from 
neuralgia. She hovered about with eau-de-cologne, and 
she was always ready to shake up the cushions. She 
wore a strange smile, too, so tiny that he wondered whether 
it really was a smile. It fascinated him, but his arms 
ached to hold her. 

She was thinking, This is when he’s helpless and docile, 
dependent on me. I like it. 

She was gentle with him, and sympathetic, and she al¬ 
lowed no one to make a noise in the room. He lay on the 
sofa, eyes closed, frowning, and from time to time she 
went to him, to sprinkle more eau-de-cologne on a hand¬ 
kerchief. Once, because she could not resist it, she stroked 
back an errant strand of hair. Stephen’s eyes flew open. 
She allowed her hand to rest for a moment near his head, 
then she went back to her chair, conscious that he was 
watching her. 

Then Mrs. Ramsay came to stay with them, bringing 
Thomas, and after three days spoke tentatively to Eliz¬ 
abeth. 

‘‘Darling, how are things with you? Is it easier yet?” 

Elizabeth would not look at her. 

“Yes, mater. Much.’’ 

“Can I be officious, please? Does Stephen get on your 
nerves still ? ’ ’ 

Elizabeth shook her head. Stephen had stayed in bed 
one day when he had had neuralgia, and he had not shaved. 
Elizabeth had hardly noticed it. That showed her how 
she had changed. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


329 


“I’m so glad, because he’s such a dear thing,” Mrs. 
Ramsay said. “So very human. Thomas is chasing the 
lamb again. How bad of him; Elizabeth, I want you and 
Stephen to be happy. Tell me when you are.” 

She did not allude to the subject again during her visit, 
but when she left the Halt, Elizabeth of her own accord 
put her arms about her, and whispered, 

“Mater, I do love you.” 

Mrs. Ramsay laughed, and kissed her. 

“I hoped you would, darling. Madness and all?” 

* ‘ That is the part I love. ’ ’ 

“Then you’re a new Elizabeth, my dear, because I 
used to horrify you dreadfully.” 

“What were you and Mater whispering about?” Ste¬ 
phen asked, when his mother was gone. 

“That’s our secret,” Elizabeth answered mysteriously. 

“I don’t think I altogether approve of you and Mater 
having secrets,” he said solemnly. 

Elizabeth laughed and went away to pick flowers for 
the drawing-room. It struck him that there was invita¬ 
tion in her backward glance, but he could not be sure. 

Meanwhile his novel grew quickly, and as quickly was 
typed. Having found that her first, nervous criticisms 
were received favourably, Elizabeth grew bolder, and had 
many suggestions to make. One one occasion they came 
near to quarrelling, and she had to put a check on her 
tongue. She criticised adversely, forgetting that Stephen 
was sensitive about his work. When the argument became 
acrimonious and she saw that he was really angry she be¬ 
gan to eat her words, very cunningly, until at last she had 
smoothed Stephen’s ruffled temper and made him docile 
again, and repentant. Then he thought over all that she 
had said, lectured her severely, and went away to re¬ 
write the few pages she had not liked. She was careful 
not to let him see her triumph. 


330 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


In May Miss Arden wrote to beg Elizabeth to come and 
see her soon. Elizabeth did not want to go at all, but 
she replied that she would love to come to the Boltons for 
a week if Aunt Anne would have her. It was not Eliza- 
beth-Anne who wrote that letter, but herself, in the spirit 
of coquetry that had come to her. 

She told Stephen of the invitation, and demurely asked, 
Can I go ? 

Stephen sat up very straight in his chair; through her 
lashes she watched a blank look come into his face. 

“But, ’Lisbeth, when I asked you to come to town 
with me last month, you refused! ’’ 

“I feel different now, you see,” she explained. “I’d 
like to see Auntie and Father again. Besides the chicks 
were too young to be left last month.” 

“Damn the chickens!” Stephen growled. 

Elizabeth played with her wedding-ring. 

“I won’t go if you’d—if you’d rather I stayed. If—if 
you—want me. ’ ’ 

He squared his shoulders; the frown went out of his 
eyes. 

“No. Of course you must go if you feel you’d like to. 
Only—how long will it be, Elizabeth?” 

“Not more than a week,” she assured him. 

“Not more —! Yes, of course. I—I hope you’ll en¬ 
joy yourself, darling.” 

She rose, looking strangely down at him. She was near 
to stamping her foot at his density. 

“When do you depart?” Stephen asked, with studied 
coolness. 

“The day after to-morrow,” Elizabeth replied. 

There was a pause. 

“I see. You might look the Mater up while you’re in 
town. Not unless you want to, of course.” 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 331 

“Sometimes,” Elizabeth said breathlessly, “I’d—I’d like 
to hit you!” 

He got up, slowly. 

“What have I done? Why are you fed up with me? 
I didn’t know that I’d—” 

“You haven’t done anything,” Elizabeth answered:. 
“You don’t.” 

He was puzzled and anxious. 

“Don’t? Elizabeth, what is it? Please tell me! 
What’s the matter?” 

She gave a funny little laugh that was also a sob. 

“You—you silly old thing, Stephen! Nothing’s the 
matter. Nothing at all!” 

He took a. step towards her, but she turned quickly and 
fled. 

Ten minutes later, from her bedroom window, she saw 
him stride away across the fields, with his hands deep in 
the pockets of his old shooting jacket and his head bare to 
the spring breezes. 

She watched him go, the dogs leaping about him, and 
her heart swelled with pride of his fine shoulders and 
great height, and the even swing of his walk. She blew 
him a kiss from the tips of her fingers. He was hers; her 
man, clever and stupid, strong and so weak. 

“Stephen!” she said softly. “I love you, I love you!” 

But she went away on Thursday to stay with her father. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 


4 ‘Oh, my darling!” Miss Arden sighed. “After all 
these months. I’ve so longed to have you with me again !” 

Elizabeth was touched. She slipped her arm about Miss 
Arden and hugged her slightly. 

“I’m sorry, auntie, but I couldn’t come before. You 
and Father must come down to the Halt this summer when 
the roses are in bloom. You will, won’t you?” 

“Oh, my dear, of course! Elizabeth, you’re fatter!” 

“She is looking the picture of health,” Lawrence said 
complacently. 

“I’ve never seen you so well-covered!” exclaimed Miss 
Arden, stepping back to survey her niece. “Never!” 

“It comes of associating so much with the lady in Ste¬ 
phen’s new book,” laughed Elizabeth. “Stephen informs 
the world in three places that she’s deep-bosomed. Isn’t 
it an awful expression? I’m growing like her.” 

“Elizabeth dear! And—and how is—Stephen?” 

Elizabeth went to the looking-glass and removed her hat. 

“Rather peevish. He doesn’t like being left alone, poor 
old thing.” 

“My dear Elizabeth, surely you must have known that 
our invitation included him ? ’ ’ Lawrence said. 

“Oh yes, father! I just—didn’t want him. How is 
Mr. Hengist?” 

Miss Arden compressed her lips. 

“Very well, I believe. That man is never ill. He is 
coming to dine with us to-night, I am sorry to say. I 
should have liked to have you to myself, but your father 
had already invited him. I hope you don’t mind, Eliz¬ 
abeth?” 


332 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


333 


* 1 Of course I don’t. Mr. Hengist is my oldest friend. 
I want to see him.” 

“In that case, it’s all right then,” Miss Arden said, in 
a voice that told Elizabeth that it was not all right at all, 
but all wrong. 

She longed to see Mr. Hengist; she put on a wispy 
black evening frock for his benefit, having found that in 
most men’s eyes black found favour. She spent much 
time in the arrangement of her hair and when at last 
she was ready looked keenly at her reflection in the 
mirror. 

“I’ve matured,” she thought. “I used to be pretty. 
I’m more than that now. I’m different. I’m Elizabeth- 
pure-and-simple. ’ ’ 

She went down to the drawing-room and stood for a 
moment against the white door, smiling. Mr. Hengist, 
rising, thought that her great eyes were like stars. She 
looked older, but infinitely more beautiful. 

She came forward. 

“By Jove!” thought Mr. Hengist. “She’s suddenly 
grown into a woman. She’s got poise at last! Poise and 
assurance.” 

“I’m so sorry if I’ve kept everyone waiting,” Eliza¬ 
beth said. “Mr. Hengist, I am so very, very glad to see 
you.” 

He kissed her, and patted her shoulder. 

“My dear child,” he said gruffly. “Yes, and yes, and 
yes.” 

She laughed up at him. 

“ Is it yes, Mr. Hengist ? ’ ’ 

“It looks like it,” he answered. 

“Aha! You see, I’ve got a new name for myself.” 
Her eyes danced; he thought her transfigured. 

“Well, what is it, rogue?” 

‘ ‘ Elizabeth-pure-and-simple. ’ ’ 


334 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“That's excellent,’’ he said. “What chased the lady 
away ? ’ ’ 

She shook her head. 

“I shan’t tell you.” 

Mr. Hengist looked at her. 

“I believe I know,” he said. 

“What on earth are you talking about?” Miss Arden 
asked. “Come along in to dinner. ...” 

“And how,” said Mr. Hengist, shaking out his table- 
napkin, “is the magnum opus ?” 

“Ah yes!” Lawrence interjected. “The great book! 
Does it progress?” 

“Fast,” Elizabeth answered. “It’s had some ups and 
downs, but I think all is plain sailing now.” 

* 1 Quite an inspired writer, ’ ’ Lawrence said meditatively. 

Elizabeth thought of the many times she had had to en¬ 
courage Stephen to go on with the book, and had discussed 
it with him, and had coaxed away his fits of dissatisfac¬ 
tion. She smiled to herself. 

Mr. Hengist was watching her. 

“Does he need much inspiration, Elizabeth?” 

“Sometimes,” she nodded. 

“I don’t quite follow you,” Lawrence said. No one of¬ 
fered to enlighten him, so he changed the subject, and 
asked Mr. Hengist how he thought Elizabeth was looking. 

“Buxom,” Mr. Hengist replied promptly, and there was 
an outcry. When it had subsided, he said, “All right, I 
retract. Is Stephen anywhere in the offing, or are you 
alone, child?” 

“I’m alone. I’ve come up to see Auntie and Father, 
and to do some shopping. I—just thought I’d leave Ste¬ 
phen behind.” Her dimples peeped out. 

“Will you have time for anything else?” Mr. Hengist 
asked. 

“It depends on what it is,” she answered. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 335 

Come and dine with me and go to a theatre after¬ 
wards. ’’ 

“I’d love to. When, please V 9 

** When you like. What about Saturday V 9 

“I will. Thank you very much.” 

She went to tea with Mrs. Ramsay, the next day, and 
was welcomed with open arms. Cynthia came in the mid¬ 
dle of tea, and although she was not very cordial she did 
not say anything unkind, nor did she sneer to her mother 
when Elizabeth had gone. 

“Cynny, she's blossomed forth.” 

“Urn! WeH?” 

“Darling, I’m feeling incurably sentimental. She's in 
love with Stephen.” 

Cynthia threw the end of her cigarette into the fire. 

‘ * Is she really ? Why has she left him at the Halt then ? ’ ’ 

“I think she’s flirting with him,” smiled Mrs. Ramsay. 
“Trying to make him come part of the way to meet her.” 

“What if he doesn’t? He may not understand.” 

“Then,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “I believe she’ll go all the 
way. Probably in a rush.” 

“Not she.” 

“She will, Cyn, she will. I think I want to cry. I’m— 
I’m thinking of the awful strained look in Stephen’s 
eyes.” 

Cynthia put out her hand quickly, and laid it over one 
of Mrs. Ramsay’s. 

“If what you say is true, mater; it’ll go.” 


“Well, young lady,” said Mr. Hengist, “you’re very 
gay. How’s Elizabeth-Anne ? ’ ’ 

“Dead,” said Elizabeth, sparkling. “The funeral took 
place last month.” 


336 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Oh? Why then, exactly?” 

Elizabeth looked at him across the table for one fleeting 
instant. 

“She died, you see, when I discovered that I was in love 
with my husband. ’ ’ 

“I thought as much,” Mr. Hengist said placidly. “Par¬ 
don my rudeness, but does Stephen know ? ’ ’ 

She shook her head. 

“He—he—it's rather difficult to make him understand.” 

“I don’t think I’m qualified to give advice,” said Mr. 
Hengist. 

‘ 1 Oh, no! This is my own little game. I just thought 
you’d like to know. I found it all out in a flash, and— 
everything changed, as you said it would. And I—want 
to thank you—for all that you’ve done for me—and to 
tell you—” 

“Beyond giving you a typewriter—” began Mr. Hen¬ 
gist more gruffly than ever. 

“And the good advice. Oh, you know, Mr. Hengist! 
I was ungrateful and stupid at the time. I’m awfully 
grateful now. You did me more good than anybody.” 

“That’ll do!” Mr. Hengist said loudly. “That’ll do, 
Elizabeth!” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 


Stephen was on the station-platform, eagerly scanning 
each carriage as it passed him. He had sprung forward 
before Elizabeth could open the door, and had swung it 
open for her. 

“Oh—’Lisbeth!” 

She gave him her hands; he thought she looked radiant, 
and there was that in her smile which made the blood race 
madly through his veins. They walked down the platform 
together. Elizabeth’s arm was in his; she squeezed it 
slightly, and said, 

“Are you glad I’m back, Stephen?” 

“That’s—a silly question,” he said. “You’ve enjoyed 
yourself?” 

“Yes. Fairly. I—missed you rather.” She was over¬ 
come with shyness. “And—and everything,” she added 
hurriedly. 

They got into the waiting car. 

“Y es —exactly,” Stephen said. “Did you see the Ma¬ 
ter?” 

“I did.” 

He looked down. 

“More secrets?” 

“Not—so very secret,” she said. She snuggled down 
in the car, and looked with contented eyes about her: at 
the tender green of spring, the grey shadows cast by over¬ 
hanging trees, and the winding road ahead, dusty, and mot¬ 
tled with the sunlight filtering through the leaves above. 
“It’s good to be home again,” she said. 

“It’s good to hear you—call it home,” he answered. 
“To me it hasn’t been home—all the week. 

337 


338 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


Her head touched his sleeve, caressingly. Then her 
voice changed. 

“My dear, you’re wearing the coat I put aside to give to 
the gardener.” 

He lifted one hand from the wheel, and looked sheep¬ 
ishly down at the rough tweed. 

“Am I?” he said. 

“You know you are. It’s a horrible old coat, Stephen.” 

“Well, but I like it. We can’t both of us wear new 
clothes on the same day.” 

She tilted her head. 

“You like it?” 

He did not look at the hat, but at her. 

“Rather! You look—” He broke off and put the car 
along faster. 

“What do I look, Stephen?” 

“Beautiful,” he said curtly. 

She resisted the temptation to lay her cheek against his 
shoulder. She thought, He makes it very difficult. He 
won’t help me, not-one atom. 

“The book, Stephen? How is it?” 

“I’ve done very little more,” he confessed. “I—I 
missed your presence in the room.” He sighed. “I’m a 
discontented dog, Elizabeth.” 

She was silent, waiting. 

“The roses are coming on well, aren’t they?” Stephen 
said. 

The car slowed down and stopped before the porch. 

“Very,” Elizabeth said dismally. “Oh, Hector, you 
dear thing, don’t lick my nose! ’ ’ 

She went up to her room and was a long time over her 
unpacking. When she came down for tea she had changed 
her frock to one of lilac silk which she knew became her 
better than any other she possessed. Stephen’s eyes lit up 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN' 339 

when he saw her, but all he said was, Tea's ready, 'Lis- 
beth. 

She sat down on the sofa; he sank on to his usual foot¬ 
stool and remarked that she was doing her hair a different 
way. 

“Do you like it?” she asked. 

“Very much. It suits you. How were your people?” 

“Father had a bit of a. cold, but otherwise they were all 
right. I saw Mr. Hengist once or twice. He took me to 
see ‘The Butterfly.' ” 

“Oh, was it any good?” 

“Y-es, I think it was a clever play. I never like the 
ultra-modern stuff, you know. Oh, Sarah's engaged to 
be married!” 

“No, really? Do we know the man?” 

“No. I've only seen his photograph. Not fearfully pre¬ 
possessing. Rather pudgy-faced.” 

“Perhaps he has a good heart,” Stephen grinned. “By 
the way, I had a letter from Caryll yesterday. He asked 
me to remember him very particularly to you, and to say 
that he looked forward to seeing you again as soon as pos¬ 
sible.” 

Elizabeth's face lit up. 

“Oh, did he say that? How awfully nice of him!” 

Stephen set his cup down. 

“I scent an intrigue. Out with it!” 

Pain came into her eyes. 

“Don't, Stephen! Not—not even in fun. I—I can't 
bear it.” 

He was on his knees beside her in an instant, an arm pro¬ 
tectively about her waist. 

“My darling, I never meant to hurt you! I’m awfully 
sorry, 'Lisbeth. Of course I didn't think there was any¬ 
thing in it.” 


340 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


She let her weight rest against his arm; even she inclined 
her body slightly towards him. He let her go, and went 
back to his seat. For a time she could not speak for very 
disappointment, but presently she said, 

“ You see, I met Mr. Cary 11 one day when—when I was 
with Charles. He—he said one or two things to me that— 
made me feel—ashamed and—very small.” 

“Oh, did he? D’you mind repeating just what he 
said?” Stephen demanded grimly. 

“Dear, I can’t remember. He was most polite, but— 
cold. It wasn’t what he said that made me ashamed. It 
was his manner. Can I ask him down here some day ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t know. Not if he was anything approaching 
rude to you.” 

“He wasn’t. Don’t be so silly, Stephen. I shouldn’t 
want to ask him if he had been rude. You’ve got a hole 
in your sock.” 

“I don’t mind. Oh, Elizabeth, I . . .” 

“Yes?” she said softly. 

“Nothing. Did Mater send any messages?” 

“Crowds. You aren’t to overwork, you’re not to let 
me overwork, you mustn’t use the word ‘jejune’ in your 
books more than twice, and—” 

“Do I run the word to death?” he asked quickly. 

“I haven’t noticed it. Mater says it makes her feel 
tired.” 

On those lines went the conversation; Elizabeth ached to 
feel Stephen’s arms about her, yet could not summon up 
the courage to tell him. In this new pain, filled with 
this devastating want; she realized his feelings during the 
past year. She could not in silence bear her pain for long; 
he would bear his until of her own free will she gave her¬ 
self to him. Her love for him was growing bigger and 
still stronger, but there was her instinct, and the training 
of a life-time to be overcome before she could bring herself 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


341 


to say to him, Take me; I am yours. If he would break 
the oath he had sworn to her, never to speak of love until 
she asked him, how gladly would she go to him. It seemed 
that he could not understand her new attitude, and would 
not follow the lead she gave him. He thought, perhaps, 
that she meant nothing by her little inviting actions. When 
she tilted her face upwards, standing close, very close, to 
him, he would not take the offered kiss. Did he think that 
she offered it out of friendship or compassion? He should 
be able to read all that was in her mind, and to see that in 
her glance was not friendship, but love. Yet this obtuse¬ 
ness, this obstinacy, even while it disappointed her, made 
her love him the more, tenderly and in pity for his blind¬ 
ness. Mrs. Gabriel had said that men didn’t understand. 
Elizabeth saw now that when you loved, this lack of per¬ 
ception no longer made you angry, but awoke all the mother 
that was in you, and made you feel how infinitely wiser you 
were, even though your husband was more clever than 
you. 

In a thousand little ways she wooed him, audacious and 
shy, terrified lest he should see at last, miserable when he 
did not. When he called her to come and read some para¬ 
graph of his book, she would rest her hand on his shoulder, 
and bend over him so that her hair brushed his cheek and 
her breast touched his arm. She could feel the stiffening 
of his muscles, sometimes hear a quick intake of breath. 
All her instincts urged flight, but she stayed, hoping. His 
level voice cast down her hopes every time; she was back 
at the beginning again, bruised and sad, but still indomi¬ 
table. 

It did more to kill the prude in her than all else through 
which she had passed. With a tiny smile she reflected 
that she was not behaving like a 11 nice ’ ’ girl at all, but like 
a minx. Then she thought, I’m not a girl, but a wife. 
Anything that I do with Stephen is right. Even when I 


342 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


try to vamp him. That made her laugh, for there was 
nothing of the vamp in her, and she knew it. 

Once Stephen grasped her shoulders and said stormily, 

“You drive me mad! What is this queer elusive air of 
yours ?’ ’ 

She shivered, and was still under his hands. The grip 
loosened. 

“Sorry, ’Lisbeth. Forgetting myself.” 

She tried to say the words that were in her heart. They 
would not be spoken; she could only run from the room, 
furious with herself, and with him. 

The book was nearing its end. When it is finished, 
Elizabeth thought, I will tell him. 

But she hoped that he would see before that. Curled on 
the sofa in the evening, a rose-shaded light behind her, she 
watched Stephen at work, and could almost find it in her 
to be jealous of the woman in his book who occupied his 
thoughts. Time wore on, and in the hall the old grand¬ 
father clock struck midnight, but she would not go up to 
bed. Stephen would send her there if he remembered her 
presence, but he was absorbed in his writing; he had for¬ 
gotten time and her. 

An hour later he pushed the work away and stretched 
mightily, yawning. He rose, and saw Elizabeth, fast 
asleep among the silken cushions, her hair a little ruffled, 
and one hand lying palm upwards upon her lap. He 
stood very still, looking down upon her, drinking in her 
beauty till his hands clenched hard at his sides, and his 
mouth went awry at the pain of it. 

Gently he slipped his arms under her; she stirred but 
did not awake; her cheek lay now against his shoulder, 
rosy in sleep; she was in his arms, yielding and sweet. 

He carried her out into the beamed hall, where shadows 
lay, mysterious and soft, and up the shallow stairs to the 
floor above. He would not let himself look into her face, 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 343 

but set his teeth against the leaping flame within him, and 
went on. 

On the bend of the stair she sighed, and opened drowsy 
eyes. He stopped and spoke quietly to her. 

‘‘It’s all right, ’Lisbeth. I’m carrying you up to bed, 
you naughty babe.” 

But she had not been startled, or afraid; he expected a 
struggle, perhaps shrinking. Sleepily she said, 

“Thank you, Stephen! How comfy!” 

He thought she was only half awake, which accounted for 
this trust. He would not take advantage of her uncon¬ 
scious pliancy. Swiftly he went on. 

Elizabeth nestled a little closer, looking up into his set 
face. Her hand tucked itself into his coat. 

“Aren’t I very heavy?” she murmured. 

“No.” 

He crossed the landing and put her down, just inside 
her room. 

“Good night, my darling,” he said huskily, and went 
quickly out. 

She was left standing by her bed, gazing blankly at 
the shut door. Like a child she rubbed her eyes, and her 
mouth drooped. 

The stairs creaked; Stephen had gone down again. List¬ 
lessly she began to undress, and because she was tired and 
wanted his arms about her still, one or two big tears welled 
over her eyelids and rolled unheeded down her cheeks. 

She thought, If only he would come back! I shouldn’t 
be frightened; it’s when he isn’t here that I’m frightened. 

Presently she heard him run up the stairs and go into 
his dressing-room. She stood by her dressing-table, 
fidgeting with the handle of her brush, blinded by tears. 
Then, obeying an impulse which would not be gainsaid, 
she stumbled to the door between their rooms, and knocked 
on it. 


344 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


“Come in!” Stephen’s voice was surprised. 

She managed to open the door, and stood drooping upon 
the threshold. Stephen was in his shirt-sleeves, staring 
at her. Hje saw the tears, and was at her side in an 
instant. 

“My darling!” Consternation sounded in his voice, 
and throbbing anxiety. “ ’Lisbeth, what is it?” 

Words crowded in her throat, but would not be said; 
another big tear rolled down her cheek, and a little, lonely 
sob came. 

Stephen drew her gently into the room, his arm comfort¬ 
ingly about her. 

“Sweetheart, what is it? Why are you crying? I—I 
can’t bear to see you— Have I done something to upset 
you? Tell me, dearest! Please tell me!” 

Into his shoulder she said, between sobs, 

“I’ve—t-tried to—sh-show you—but you w -won’t see!” 

“Tried to show me what, precious? You poor little 
thing, what is it?” 

She wanted him to see for himself. She sank closer to 
him and buried her face in his shirt. He stiffened, and 
said hoarsely, 

“ ’Lisbeth—I can’t— You’d better gn— I won’t 
answer for myself if you—” 

“I don’t want—to go.” 

Almost roughly he pushed her from him, and held her 
so, at arm’s length. 

“Elizabeth, what ark you saying? I’m—I can’t bear 
much more. What is it that you want?” 

So she would have to say it after all; it was a tiresome 
thing, his honour. 

“I—want—you,” she whispered. 

The hands fell from her shoulders; Stephen made her look 
full into his eyes. 


INSTEAD OF THE THORN 


345 


“Do you know what you’ve said?” he asked, unnaturally 
calm. “Do you—mean it—or is it just—” 

Her eyes were dark, and bright with tears; she put up 
her little hands and grasped his shirt. Almost she shook 
him. 

“Oh, can’t you see, can’t you see?” she cried, quiver¬ 
ing. “Haven’t I—shown you, my dear ? I w-want you so 
much that it’s tearing me in two! I want you! Won’t 
you —take me?” 

His arms were tight about her at last, crushing her 
against himself, his lips were on her hair, for her face was 
hidden again. She clung to him, laughing and crying, 
and heard his voice above her, broken and strange. 

“Oh, my darling, my darling, my darling!” 

Her hands went up to his neck; she turned her face up¬ 
ward, and he saw her lips expectant. 

“I want—another honeymoon,” she said softly. “I— 
love—you.” She pulled his head down, and his kisses 
fell on her eager lips. 


THE END 






















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